


The Mockingbird's Clutches

by lioness47



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Daddy Kink, Dark, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dom/sub, Dominance, Dubious Consent, F/M, Psychological Trauma, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Abuse, Some Plot, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:14:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22577626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lioness47/pseuds/lioness47
Summary: Betrothed to Tyrion Lannister, Sansa Stark thinks her life can't get any more hopeless.Until the royal party is caught outside the Red Keep during the worst of the King's Landing riots.For a moment, she believes she's going to be rescued.But the little bird is whisked away to somewhere even darker than she'd imagined.Perhaps it would have been better if she'd never been saved at all.
Relationships: Petyr Baelish/Sansa Stark
Comments: 89
Kudos: 160





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a canon-divergence with an aged-up Sansa. All other events are the same, but her betrothal to Tyrion is later/longer, so that she is a few years older at the onset. 
> 
> **Warnings**  
>  This will be a dark and more sadistic Petyr  
> There is intentionally inflicted psychological and sexual trauma  
> There is coercive and abusive daddy kink
> 
> I am *trying* to get out of my comfort zone and write an unredeemable Petyr. This won't be for everyone. It's not my typical gray-area love story. 
> 
> Please be warned (if I do it successfully) this won't be romantic & swoony but rather super edgy, or at least as edgy as I can make it.

Sansa’s heart leapt with hope when the hulking, bald-headed soldier threw off her attackers.

The men had pinned her to the dirty floor, and she knew her virtue would be taken from her, _torn,_ in mere seconds. Repeatedly. By all three stinking, rotted-toothed commoners.

Who could hear her screams? Who cared, when the streets of King’s Landing erupted into one of the worst riots yet?

The mysterious stranger easily cut through the first two with his sword. When the third knocked the blade from the soldier’s hands, he swung an axe up through his opponent’s open legs, making a horrid slicing sound Sansa would never forget.

But when her savior drew her to her feet, he clamped his massive hand over her mouth, and her skin immediately prickled in warning.

Sansa was almost too stunned to fight back. Her struggles had been pitiful as he tied her arms behind her back and yanked a gag tightly over her mouth, silencing her screams. 

Adding to her confusion, the armored man both blindfolded and placed a hood over her head, plunging her into total darkness. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry! I cannot warn enough - this is BAD PETYR.

He needed her to calm down. She would be of no use to him if she gave herself over to a fatal fright.

“Please, please,” the girl babbled, pulling at the restraints for what he assumed had been at least a quarter hour, judging from the burns at her wrists. She hadn’t broken her alabaster skin – yet. But if she continued in this manner, it wouldn’t be long.

That wouldn’t do, either. Petyr didn’t like his possessions marred.

Not unless he was the one commanding the marking.

One nod in the direction of his man and the back of Sansa’s dress was ripped in two.

She cried, her pleas reaching levels of hysteria. Pulling at the ropes that held her hands above her head. Even from behind, he could see her tremble in fear of what was to come next. The unknown.

 _That’s good, little one,_ he thought. _That’s what we want. Remember this well._

Though, it wasn’t about what he wanted. It was about what was _necessary._

There was more than one way to mark her, to brand her, to bind her to him.

In the end, he’d use them all.

A terse nod in the direction of his man, and the braided leather hit with a loud _crack_ across the room.

It hadn’t sliced her skin, only raised one sharp weal across her pale back. He didn’t want to draw blood; just get the girl’s attention.

Sansa jerked and groaned. He guessed fresh tears fell, but still he watched only from the back.

“You need to calm down, girl,” said the man holding the strip of leather. His voice was gruff, harsh, markedly low born.

Petyr wished he could speak. His dulcet tones in her ear, breath warm, words cold. His hands itched to grab her hair, yank her head back, detail his demands… and what would happen to her if she didn’t follow them.

And that’s to say nothing of his cock, which stirred the moment he’d entered the room and seen the whimpering girl. Finally at his mercy to do whatever he wanted. To possess the body which he grew to feel belonged to him, watching as it blossomed over the years in King’s Landing.

He’d waited those long years for this chance.

An opportunity nearly despoiled by the pawns of the very riot he stoked for this singular outcome.

Well. Perhaps he’d had more than one purpose in creating the chaos.

“Will you stop crying now, girl? Or do I have to hit ya again?”

“I – I’ll stop.”

Her voice was barely a whisper. Shaky. The tears did not stop, Petyr knew, even from the back. But the sobs, the begging. She had quieted those, at least. Gotten herself under control.

_See, my sweetling? All you need is a lick of the leather to put your head where it needs to be._

To his pride, Sansa did not lose control when his man started tearing off her gown. She begged again – but quietly, mostly to herself.

The blue dress fell, forgotten, in a pool on the floor.

 _Please, please,_ she murmured, when standing only in her shift.

But with a tear, that came off as well.

Petyr swallowed hard when the girl stood only in her small clothes.

With a final rip, the cheeks of her firm ass were bare before him.

_Beautiful._

He wasn’t the sentimental sort, but he wasn’t made of stone. What man wouldn’t be swayed to full-masted admiration by the struggling, naked redhead before him?

His lust was matched by his ire. With a flick of his head he dismissed his man. That the brute had also seen his lady in all her naked glory was a hateful circumstance to Petyr, quelled only by the knowledge that the fucker would be dead tomorrow.

Alone, Petyr approached the squirming girl.

His boots clicked on the floor, and he saw her head tilt at the new sound, noting another presence in the room, different from the first.

Clever girl. Even in distress, she retained some of her wits. He would have to be very careful.

He walked around, to her front, unable to keep from licking his lips as her pert breasts and the auburn patch of hair between her legs came into his view.

Her legs hadn’t been tied. She pressed them together, an effort at modesty or a flimsy hope at protection against violation.

Oh, how he wanted to shove those legs apart and bury his tongue between the folds of that sweet, sweet cunt. Latch his lips onto her nipples, hardened with fear, and suck until she moaned, bite until she begged.

He licked his lips and swallowed again.

With a gloved hand, he reached out and caught a tear slipping through the bottom of her blindfold and onto one pale cheek. Sansa flinched at the touch, gave a sharp intake of breath.

“Please,” she whispered.

Petyr lifted his finger and licked the tear, tasting her salt. All the taste he could have at the moment. 

His cock strained painfully against his breeches.

It would have to wait. For now. And later. And even years after that.

But Petyr was nothing if not patient.


	3. Chapter 3

_Joffrey is behind this._

He was cruel enough. Sadistic. Black-hearted.

Sansa was sure it to be the case, when she was tied to a bed.

But as time wore on, she began to doubt. He was not this methodical. Patient. Almost… careful?

No one came straight away to hurt her, as she feared. No one cut her or hit her or even touched her. And her head rested against a pillow someone helped gently place.

Not Joffrey then.

But it had the Lannisters written all over it. Who else wished her ill? Who else had the resources to carry out such a scheme? And the more time passed, the more she was sure there was some plot behind it, if she could only work it out.

Tyrion, her betrothed? No, he’d always been kind to her.

Cersei? Perhaps. But she was too busy these days with the bouquet of Highgarden’s roses enchanting the air at court, turning attention away from her, from the spell she’d previously cast.

_Tywin then._

Because Sansa was unhappy about marrying his son, and because it was obvious to all. And were a maid forced to wed, it could one day be disputed and annulled by a sympathetic Septon.

Picturing the cold in Tywin’s eyes, the answer to Sansa’s fate hardened in her heart like a shard of ice.

Rape. It would be rape. To despoil her. Make her agreeable, grateful even, for a husband to have her. Or perhaps worse… perhaps to get her with child, solidifying her acquiescence, her thankfulness to have Tyrion claim the bastard.

Would Tyrion be the one to rape her? Or would any Lannister cousin do the trick? 

#

“Use this.”

A maid, a guard, Sansa didn’t know. The voice was female, instructing her to use the chamberpot she’d shoved between her legs.

The humiliation felt hot, a real thing searing her body from toes to temples.

But she was grateful for the opportunity. She’d been made to drink something, an alcohol of some type. A wine and rum mixed, perhaps. Strong, lulling her. She almost didn’t feel the urge to scream anymore. Not that she could, with the gag around her mouth.

And then, curiously, it was removed.

#

He came shortly after that.

The Lannister. Sansa couldn’t say how she knew it wasn’t the guard or the chambermaid or anyone else, but _some man_ with intentions greater than the others. A sense she couldn’t name, assured her of it.

This was the one. Come to touch her. Take her.

She had been given a reprieve. For how long, she couldn’t say. Hours? Not enough time to get used to her nakedness. Enough that this man’s entrance made her feel nudity anew. Acute.

She could see nothing at all beneath the blindfold. Her ears strained for information.

“Please,” she whispered, not expecting it to do much good, only unable to stop.

The man did not speak.

She heard the step of boots, felt the air shift. He’d moved. Closer.

When a gloved hand touched her ankle, she jumped.

 _The man from before._ The one who wiped her tear. Most likely.

Not Tyrion.

This time, she smelled his cloying perfume. It made her picture the Lannisters. Blonde. Pampered. Entitled.

The bed creaked and shifted, notifying her that he’d slid onto it.

He clamped two leather-gloved hands around her thighs and parted them, revealing her core.

Sansa’s heart beat furiously. And yet not enough.

The wine. The rum. Whatever it was, she’d drank too much. No. She’d drank just enough. Enough to relax her.

She gasped, feeling the man’s breath on her cunt.

It was backwards. She didn’t understand.

His breath was cool. She was hot.

Inhale, exhale, a caress of air. Inhale. Exhale. A caress of air. 

_Was he smelling her?_

One gloved finger touched her folds and she cried out.

No one had _ever_ touched her there before. She flexed her leg muscles, but his free hand and shoulder kept her thighs wedged apart.

The finger dipped inside and her mind fought the violation, fruitlessly.

Deft. Testing. Not rushed, but not lingering either.

Why? Her maidenhead?

She whimpered, but did not speak. Something about the man’s silence cast a spell over her, driving her to match it. Or else something inside told her that her utterances would do little good, and indeed, might somehow be used against her. As he wordlessly discovered her, she forced herself to close her mouth and open her ears for all she could learn about him as well.

Did he know?

Because the finger did something so unexpected, Sansa didn’t understand it at all and it quickly severed her connection to her will.

The finger withdrew, and touched a place above her opening. An area that didn’t feel like anything else on her body. A bundle of nerve-endings that made her jump, lifting her rear from the bed with the shock of it.

Just as quickly as it started, it ended.

The questions did not.

Why? What was this for? What was happening next?

Had she years to guess, she couldn’t have prepared for what _did_ happen.

A tongue – wet, insistent - flicked out and over that same area. Once, twice, three times.

The conflict of emotions was more than Sansa could handle. She moaned. She wept. It felt good. She didn’t want to feel good. She wanted to understand it. She desperately wanted it to stop. She wanted to go home.

Was he readying her somehow?

Rape was coming next. Sansa was sure of it.

The man moved upwards, strangely avoiding body contact. Her legs flew together when his weight pressed the mattress down to her right.

“P- please, please,” Sansa whispered.

The room wasn’t hot, but she felt warm. Beads of sweat formed on the back of her neck, her shoulder blades.

Every inch of her skin was alive, vibrating, anticipating. Where would he touch her next? Would it hurt?

She braced herself for pain. Sucked in a breath.

A feather-light touch of leather caressed her nipple.

She couldn’t help the sigh that escaped her lips. It wasn’t pleasure, it wasn’t, it wasn’t. It was just relief.

The gentle touch was… odd. With her whole body available, she had imagined the worst. Was this some kind of torturous game?

She was shocked again when suddenly, she felt the lightest flutter of a kiss. Lips pressed softly to hers.

A tongue reached out again, licking a tear near the side of her mouth.

The man withdrew.

She felt the weight shift on the bed, then leave it entirely.

Heard him step away.

Rape was coming next. Sansa was sure of it.

The man left.

#

The alcohol wore off. Sansa’s weeping wore on. She pulled at her ropes for hours. The more her senses sharpened, the closer she crept to the edge of hysteria.

It was a game. A little more each time.

Rape was coming next. The man was coming to rape her.

To put a Lannister baby in her belly. Sansa was sure of it. Even if he didn’t, she was forever damaged. Assaulted. Mistreated. Some part of her now knew darkness, and would live in it forever. This blackness, the unknown in which they’d kept her. 

She hated the Lannisters. She hated her fate. She hated King’s Landing. She just wanted to go home.

#

She didn’t know how long it had been when she heard the muffled sounds of fighting. Screams. The clatter of swords. Furnishings thrown about, crashing.

She heard the door to her room swing open, slam.

_I don’t want to die._

She hadn’t even dared to hope it was a rescue. Not after the last time.

She flinched at the unmistakable sound of a sword piercing a man, and his final, strangled grunt. With a clatter, he fell. Right next to her bed. Someone had been slain. 

Was she next?

A moment of silence followed.

And then, _“My lady.”_

A man. He exclaimed the words, yet he didn’t raise his voice. Sansa heard the concern, the shock.

Her hands were cut loose. Her blindfold torn from her head.

Blinking, her eyes adjusted to the light.

No, not light. It was dark. Sansa could see that. Nighttime. But brighter than the darkness she’d inhabited for… hours? Days?

He came into her focus.

“Lord…” Sansa tried to find her voice. She couldn’t.

She burst into tears.

Lord Baelish circled his arms around her. Scooped her naked form into his lap.

“Fetch my cloak,” he called, over his shoulders.

Safe in the arms of her mother’s old friend, an acquaintance at court, Sansa had trouble holding onto reality. She didn’t trust it anyway. She just sobbed, curled into Littlefinger’s lap, unable to ask questions or even form thought.

After some time, she realized a cloak had been placed around her shoulders. Black. It smelled like him. She was smelling him, clean and masculine, and she hadn’t even noticed.

Funny that smell should have been the first sense returned to her.

Hearing was next.

“Shhh… shhh…” he soothed, stroking her hair.

And then she felt him. The prickle and press of his short beard against her forehead. The reassuring hold of his arms around her trembling form. The warmth of his body.

An embrace of protection.

#

It was different than when she was blindfolded, but time passed again in a way Sansa could not sense. How long did she curl into Littlefinger’s lap, clinging and crying?

She did not know. Only that after a while, she felt okay enough to talk.

“Shh… You’ve had quite a fright, my lady, but the worst is past.”

“It was the Lannisters, I know it.”

“Can you walk? We must hurry if we’re to escape the capitol.”

“Escape?” Her voice, a whisper. “Where would we go?”

“You’d rather stay?” he asked.

“No, no.”

 _Why are you helping me?_ she wanted to say. But more than that, she wanted to leave.

“I can walk.”

A young woman brought a bundle of clothes into the room and laid them on the bed, nodding to Petyr.

“We must be quick, and through the back streets. I need you to move swiftly, without questions. Do you understand?”

Sansa nodded.

“Before we leave, I must ask you one thing. It is a long journey and there will not be any… uncommon provisions. My lady, do you need moon tea?”

Sansa thought she could no longer blush after what she’d just endured, but so close to Littlefinger – the enigmatic, older man from court – she felt the heat on her cheeks as she vehemently shook her head.

“Put this on,” he said, and made to leave the room.

“Please, Lord Baelish, wait. Don’t... leave.” Sansa grabbed his arm with one hand. With the other, she clutched his black cloak tight around her shoulders. She didn’t want to be alone. And she didn’t trust anyone anymore. Anyone except him.

Littlefinger’s mouth twitched when she asked him to stay.

He nodded, turning around respectfully. Giving her privacy, while still assuring her of the safety of his presence.

“Come,” he said, when she was done. “Quickly, now.” 

Sansa tried not to look at the bleeding corpse next to her bed. But she did. It was the bald man who’d kidnapped her.

Lord Baelish didn’t spare a glance as he stepped over the lifeless body.

With a hand low on her back to guide her, he escorted her out of the room.

#

Sansa held onto the ship’s rail with white knuckles. She wasn’t scared of the sea. She was just scared.

“You saved me,” she said.

The question was in there.

_Why?_

He didn’t answer.

Or did he?

“A thousand gold cloaks are searching for you,” Littlefinger said. “And if they found you, how do you think they’d punish the girl who murdered the king?”

Sansa blinked.

“Joffrey is… dead?”

Lord Baelish raised his eyebrows, gave a small nod.

“I didn’t kill anyone.”

“I know, I know, but you must admit it looks suspicious. It took some time to find him. But when they did, the king had clearly been poisoned. In an alley not far from where your party was attacked. Clutching a broken necklace of black amethysts. Your necklace.”

On instinct, Sansa’s hands flew to her throat. She’d sworn the necklace had been torn by the three men who’d first attacked her. There, on the dirt floor.

It must have been her mind playing tricks on her.

“And you fled the scene of his murder.”

“But I didn’t kill anyone,” she insisted. “I… I had been chased, I had to run…”

“I know that. And you know that. But Cersei?” He shook his head. Something between a smile and a grimace played on his lips. “She’s out for blood. Yours.”

Sansa said nothing, only stared at Littlefinger, eyes wide in fright.

“I know this has been difficult for you. But you’re safe now. I promise you that.”

“How – how did you find me?” Sansa asked.

“Forgive me, my lady, I know such… distasteful subjects… are not for the ears of one so fair, but you were taken to a house adjacent one of my brothels.” Lord Baelish ran his hands down her arms as he spoke. “One of my girls saw it happen. She was afraid to report it, afraid to leave, until the rioting quieted.”

He looked at her with his lips scrunched. Regretful at having to mention whores in her presence, perhaps.

“Oh no, my lord, please,” Sansa protested. “Thank your… lady for me. I am lucky that your establishment was so nearby.”

He seemed soothed at her words. A moment of silence passed between them, and then she asked, “Where are you taking me?”

“I’m getting married to your Aunt Lysa. She’s waiting for me at the Eyrie. I’m taking you there.”

The Eyrie? Sansa tried to wrap her head around it. The sudden change. She was marrying Tyrion Lannister, a captive of the crown. She was kidnapped, a captive of some monster. And now, she was rescued, saved by one man, the only man who risked himself to help her.

Her hero. Who’d rescued her from a monster who’d violated her. Saved her from a fate worse than death.

It was almost like a song, if Sansa believed in songs anymore. A song where the hero wasn’t tall or strong or young, but short, lean, _much older than her._ He didn’t tilt at the lists, he bet on them. He didn’t cloak himself in armor, he cloaked himself in coins.

Did such a song exist?

But Sansa knew better than to trust the singers now. Or appearances. 

“Come. Let us retire. I have a cabin made up for you…” he began to lead Sansa away from the deck, until she jerked to a stop.

“No,” she protested, sharply.

Littlefinger titled his head, cocked an eyebrow.

“I only mean… that is…” Sansa looked down at her feet, face burning. “I don’t think I can sleep alone. Not yet. Would you mind staying with me through the night, Lord Baelish?”

Sansa felt hideously childish asking it, especially to a man, an older man like Lord Petyr Baelish. But she just couldn’t face the darkness alone. He knew the men on his ship, but she didn’t. She needed him with her.

Her protector.

“Of course,” Littlefinger said, smiling so widely it touched his eyes. “I should have thought of it myself. You can share my cabin. You are safe on this ship, my lady, but I will post my most trusted guard outside our door.”

Sansa relaxed into his guiding hands, one arm encircling her waist. 

“Though you must do something for me, Lady Sansa. The Lannisters will be looking for you, everyone will be looking for you.”

He leaned toward her ear as they walked. “You must call me father once we reach the Vale – in fact, it would be best if you begin now. If we are to hide your identity, you must masquerade as my natural-born daughter, and you must do so all the time. Even here, in your heart.” Littlefinger touched his hand to her breast. “Can you do that? Can you be my daughter in your heart?”

“I – yes, Lord Bae- father.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm hoping what has happened is understandable, but if it's unclear, please let me know. 
> 
> This fic is experimental in more ways than one. So if what Petyr has done is not apparent, then I've got to play around some more. In short, this is Sansa's perspective, and it's compromised.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact - the Eyrie has a whipping boy! And thus, my inspiration. 
> 
> (Potentially) Un-fun fact - There are shifting POVs in this chapter and some time-jumpy parts in the first half.

He should not have licked her cunt, but Petyr certainly wasn’t going to lose any sleep over it.

She’d glistened with wetness. Not that he hadn’t seen such a sight a thousand times. But there bore no intimacy, no intrigue, no _appeal_ in the daily tableau of preening and posturing whores in endlessly contrived scenarios meant to titillate the brothel patrons.

Sansa’s wet folds tantalized, nearly tormenting him _._ Because she was _his._ Even if she was as yet unaware.

When he inserted his finger inside her, her core seized it, clenching around him.

And he didn’t even think the young girl knew it.

Petyr considered himself a rational man. Yet an irrational part of him became irked that Sansa wet herself for what she believed to be a stranger, _not him._

Regardless, raising the stakes was a surefire way to make a deep impression. He hadn’t actually been certain he’d gone far enough, until after. When she asked him to stay.

She’d been surprisingly stoic. Internalizing her pain. At least, when she thought someone was in the room.

He respected that. He could work with that.

Petyr rolled his neck, his shoulders. He’d insisted on taking the floor, and days of unyielding cedar for a bed had taken their toll. Were they back in King’s Landing, he could have that new girl, the muscular brunette from Pentos, work out his knots. Men came to the brothel for her hands alone.

 _Here,_ he thought, as the coastline of the Fingers came into view, _his only option would be Lysa._

If Petyr were a man to shudder, he would have.

The Lady of the Vale needed to be removed from the board, and Petyr’s favorite ploys always achieved more than one result.

_The murder of Joffrey and the rescue of Sansa._

_The rising chaos of King’s Landing and the buoying of his bottom line._

Lysa would die. And Sansa would be more indebted to him for it.

He need not even steal a kiss. By the way Sansa continually sought his side, he need only linger too long in an embrace the girl would initiate, to set Lysa into a jealous rage.

In some ways, Sansa had grown in the last few days. Her eyes took on a haunted grief, aging her, making her even more beautiful.

In other ways, she regressed, though the change wasn’t perceptible unless one paid attention. The way her eyes searched for his return whenever he stepped away. The way she stood closer to him than she would have at court.

Sometimes angling her shoulder behind, like he was her shield.

Sometimes the minor adjustment alone made the blood race to his cock.

_Yes, sweetling, I’ll protect you._

He was simply being honest to state no one in the realm could, not as well as he. It was a credit to her intelligence to align herself with him.

And if she did not yet surrender her flesh as willingly as her fate, well, no matter. They had years to bring her to her knees before him.

#

“Petyr!” Sansa cried. _“Petyr!”_

For whom else would she call in the Drearfort, Marillion’s lecherous body pressing down upon her?

Petyr had said his man would stand guard at her door, but where was Lother?

Suddenly, the air _whooshed_ as she felt Marillion’s weight lifted…

…and replaced by the calm, steady arms of…

" _Father,_ I’m sorry, I forgot,” she choked out the correct name. “Father.”

Petyr sat beside her, once again encircling his arms around the shaking girl.

Sansa looked up from her bed.

Lysa stood in the doorway, eyebrows arched, lips pursed in a tight line. Clad only in her robe. Sansa hadn’t noticed that Petyr was, as well.

“On our wedding night, girl?” It wasn’t really a question, rather an accusation through clenched teeth.

Anger rolled off of Lysa so thickly, Sansa could feel it across the room.

Lord Baelish stiffened and inched away. As if he’d been caught doing something wrong.

“He – he attacked me-” Sansa sputtered, but at that moment Lothor pushed past the scowling woman, coming into the room to grab Marillion by the scruff.

“My lord, I’m sorry. I’d only just stepped outside to attend my needs.”

He spoke evenly, without panic, yet it was more words than Sansa had ever heard from the taciturn man. The room erupted into an argument in their wake.

 _Put him down, this instant,_ Lysa ordered.

 _She made eyes at me,_ Marillion protested.

The bickering continued, until Petyr stood smoothly and said, “The girl has had yet another fright, let’s discuss the matter outside.”

Reluctantly, Lysa turned. Her cutting gaze made Sansa feel that there was more to the arguing than Marillion’s actions.

Lysa couldn’t really blame her, could she?

She hadn’t meant to interrupt her aunt’s wedding night.

It wasn’t her fault.

#

Sansa fought to catch her breath, kneeling, clutching the marble rail encircling the open moon door. The cold air blew up at her cheeks, and she was grateful for the blast. It kept the dizziness at bay.

 _He saved me,_ Sansa thought. From a forced marriage. From rape. _Three times, really._ Lord Baelish had saved her head from decorating a spike on the castle walls. He saved her from any number of horrible fates as a prisoner of the crown.

And now, he saved her from certain death at Lysa’s hands. Her aunt had released her grip on Sansa’s hair only by Petyr’s soothing words. She’d backed away only at sweet promises Petyr made. She diverted her attention from the crying, kneeling girl, only because Petyr came to embrace her.

And push the Lady of the Vale through the fatal drop.

Sansa had never seen Lysa so enraged as when she entered the hall at her aunt’s behest. And she’d seen her aunt angry many times since arriving at the Eyrie.

She had only been embracing Petyr in the winter garden. He’d helped her build a snow castle, a likeness of Winterfell. And they hugged after, in celebration. That was all.

Sansa didn’t know Lysa watched from the stairs.

Maybe she and Petyr had lingered longer than usual, but they were to be believed as father and daughter, so that wasn’t unusual. And after all they’d been through together, shouldn’t her aunt have understood?

From the corner of her eye, Sansa saw a flash of pale blue cloaks burst into the throne room. The Knights of the Vale had finally broken down the door. Somewhere, at the bottom of the six-hundred foot drop, her aunt lay dead, scattered into broken pieces. The guards took away a sobbing Marillion as prisoner, for the murder of Lysa Arryn.

Sansa eyes, deep blue pools of gratitude, met Petyr’s dark gaze.

He did not nod. He did not smirk. He did not alter his expression in the slightest.

And yet, without movement, their eyes said so much between them.

_Are you alright?_

_I… will be._

_We did what we had to do._

_I know. Thank you._

_He needs to take the blame. I’ll see to it. I’ll check on you later._

_I’ll be in my room._

_I know._

#

“Father, it’s beautiful,” Sansa remarked, smiling wide as she scooped the silver Mockingbird pin from the box. Two sapphire eyes, mirrors of her own, stared back at her.

Lord Baelish gently lifted the gift from her delicate hands. He swept back a few strands of dark chestnut hair, affixing the pin to center of her cloak, much like his own styling.

“You must be very careful,” he advised. “These sapphires are rare, nearly flawless gems. Worth more than a servant of the Eyrie sees in a lifetime; and I do not trust half the common folk Lysa carelessly employed. Mind you do not leave it about your room.”

“I won’t, father,” Sansa said, hand held protectively over the brooch. With her newly-dyed brown locks and her dark, drab gowns, it was a delight to behold such a lovely trinket. Sansa only wished her hair could be auburn once more – because then wouldn’t the sapphires look lovely in contrast? Or, if only she could wear some of Lysa’s old azure gowns, to complement the sparkling eyes of the Mockingbird?

Perhaps Petyr would soon allow it. He’d been quite pleased at the progress she made in her studies. Nightly, father and daughter sat by the hearth; Sansa reading whatever book Lord Baelish most recently instructed. _And_ she’d made great strides in handling the fits and furies of the young Lord Robin. For as much as Sansa had come to depend upon Littlefinger, she wanted to show Lord Baelish that he could rely upon her, as well.

“Surely, your father deserves a kiss for such a jewel?”

But he needn’t prompt. Sansa was always happy to show her father appreciation and affection.

Leaning in, she pressed a kiss half on his cheek and half on the side of his lips. Lord Baelish snaked one arm around her waist and squeezed her side, causing Sansa to giggle, inadvertently nuzzling her face between his head and his shoulder.

“Off to bed,” Lord Baelish said. And Sansa dutifully obeyed, still clasping her hand over the pin.

#

She shouldn’t have drunk so much wine. Lord Baelish had returned from an absence of several weeks, and together they’d opened two bottles of Arbor Gold. He was in a good mood - negotiations with the Lords Declarant going so well, grain filling up their stores, and the shipments of salted beef and pork and dried fish… _oh!_ It was even more than he’d expected and her Lord Protector had been practically _gleeful._

That must have been the reason Sansa had been so careless as to leave the pin… _somewhere._ Her bedside table? The library? She didn’t know.

After hours of searching, she accepted she was going to have to tell Lord Baelish the gift was missing. Likely stolen by one of the servants.

Her father was going to be so disappointed in her. It made Sansa feel as if she’d been smacked in the gut by the broadside of Ser Meryn's sword.

#

“I’m sorry, father. I don’t know what happened.”

She spoke the words to the floor, head bowed. She’d confessed as much as she knew. The fate of her brooch would forever remain a mystery.

There was a long pause. Sansa chewed her lip.

She felt _awful._

“I cannot neglect my duties as your father. I must punish you, daughter.”

At those words she felt _worse._

Wide-eyed with terror, Sansa looked up. The disappointment she saw in Lord Baelish’s face broke her heart. _Why had she been so careless?_

“Rest assured,” Petyr said. “I will find a common girl to take the whipping, as we do with the young Lord Robin.”

Her stomach twisted at that news -- part relief to not have to suffer pain, part distress at causing it in another.

#

The girl’s eyes watered, fighting back tears, even as she stepped into the room. By her petite, slight form, and her round, youthful face, Sansa guessed her age to be about four and ten. She had honey-colored hair and calloused hands that had seen years of physical work.

 _Too young._ Not an equal replacement for her. What had Petyr promised her family in exchange for submitting their daughter to a beating? Or had he simply ordered her to the task?

With trembling fingers, the whipping girl unlaced the top of her gown. She ducked her chin down, wiping an errant tear from her cheek onto her shoulder.

Petyr stood nearby, his expression unreadable to Sansa. In his hands, he grasped a fear-inducing instrument Sansa had never seen before. A black handle branched out into several short, cruel strips of leather.

Sansa thought she was going to be sick.

Lysa may have pushed the discipline of her children onto innocent commoners, but Ned never did. If any of the Stark boys needed correction, even Theon, her father doled it out onto each boy directly. Nor were the girls exempted from the rule, Septon Mordane rapped Arya’s knuckles for more infractions that Sansa could recall. Not that _she_ ever had earned so much as a stern smack of the hand. But Sansa had always been a lady, eager to please.

Would it please her father to show that she was good and brave and capable of accepting his corrections, when deserved? That she didn’t need a whipping boy, like the fragile Robin Arryn?

 _“Wait!”_ Sansa cried, halting Petyr’s raised arm mid-air.

Both sets of eyes turned to her. The silence in the air seemed very heavy.

“I cannot allow her to take punishment for my actions. I – I will take the whipping, father.”

Sansa could scarcely breathe. Had she really just said those words?

“Only, may we please do it in my room? For the… privacy… that befits your natural-born daughter?”

She stumbled over words at the end, the butterflies in her stomach, frenzied. She wanted to meet Lord Baelish’s eyes, but could not. Somewhere during her speech she shifted her gaze back to the floor, at Petyr’s feet. Her face grew hot with shame to even talk about being whipped in her bedroom. Would she have to bare her back and take… how many lashes?

Sansa shuddered.

Petyr whispered something to the whipping girl Sansa could not hear, and only saw from the corner of her eye. Quickly, the girl raised her gown and ran from the room.

A moment later, she saw Lord Baelish’s shadow, his boots, advance across the floor as he neared.

His hands were under her chin a moment later, lifting her head.

She, barefoot, and he in boots, they were nearly equal in height.

Lord Baelish bore the same sealed expression as before. His eyes, the gray of fortress walls. The inaccessibility put Sansa even more on edge, making her feel alone.

“I would not mark the back of my daughter like a commoner,” Lord Baelish said, evenly. “I propose an alteration. We can use a flat strip a wood, a paddle-like instrument, and deliver the blows to a more cushioned area of your body. I will need to bear more than your back, however.”

Sansa swallowed, understanding making her light-headed. A blush rose to her cheeks. Without insulting her by saying it, he was suggesting a spanking, as befit a child.

“I will leave the choice to you.”

Which was worse? She could preserve some modesty by taking the whipping. But would it not be better to suffer punishment where the pain would be less, the bruises to heal faster?

And, after all, it was not as if Lord Baelish had never seen her naked before. He’d seen all of her when he saved her. Only… it had been several turns of the moon since then, and Sansa felt she’d blossomed into more of a woman. Under duress in King’s Landing, she’d barely any appetite, and her form had fallen sick and wanly. Safely under Petyr’s protection in the Vale, she’d left the underfed look of her youth behind, and modest curves now appeared.

Her breasts, though still small and high, filled the bodice of her gown a bit better. On the other hand, her hips remained narrow, her legs straight and coltish. Had her rear changed? She wasn’t sure. She couldn’t remember what it looked like when Lord Baelish rescued her, and she hadn’t tracked how it had or had not rounded out.

How odd that Lord Baelish – her father – would be the only one to tell.

Sansa found her voice – a whisper. Her eyes remained at her feet. “I – I would like the alteration. Please.”

#

Sansa gulped when her bedroom door opened and Lord Baelish stepped into the room.

She’d been waiting on her bed. At her father’s instruction, she removed her small clothes, beneath her gown.

She felt and heard him come beside her. Sansa didn’t know how to feel – grateful that he was personally carrying out her punishment, or more ashamed? Who was he to her, really? Her friend? Her father? Her protector, somewhere in between?

She’d tucked her chin so low it grazed her chest. Once again he took his fingers and raised her head. 

“I’m disappointed in you, daughter,” he said, gently. “But once your punishment is complete, you will be forgiven, and we will not speak of your carelessness again.”

Sansa pursed her lips and bobbed her head in a slight nod.

“Now I need you to raise your skirts and bend over the foot of the bed.”

Sansa squeezed her eyes shut as she stood. Her knees, made of jelly, didn’t seem capable of holding out the three steps to the edge.

Her bed, high and canopied, came nearly to Sansa’s waist, so that she wouldn’t have to lean far down to support her torso as she folded.

Slowly, red as a beet, Sansa raised her dress, bunching it at her hips.

Bending, she lay her chest against her soft sheets.

Her breathing sped as she heard Lord Baelish rise and step behind her.

_Oh gods, how much of her could he see?_

Suddenly, Sansa felt the light tap of the wood against her bare bottom and she sucked in a breath.

_How much would it hurt?_

“Stay in this position, daughter, or I will be forced to give you extra strokes, and neither of us want that to happen.”

Sansa tensed her muscles, determined not to need extras.

“I’ve left the door ajar. Whichever maid stole your pin needs to know you’ve been punished for the negligence. If word spread that I neglected to discipline my daughter for such grievous inattention, it might give rise to suspicion that you are not, in fact, my daughter. Do you understand?”

Sansa gave a small groan. It made sense, but her mortification deepened to know the servants would hear her shame.

“Yes, father,” she whispered.

Lord Baelish tapped her bottom again, letting her know he was about to begin.

Then – a tense pause before she heard the _woosh -_ and felt the _thwack_ of a painful stroke right onto the lower fullness of both cheeks.

A moment later it hit her brain and Sansa let out a small scream. Tears formed in her eyes as she realized how much the spanking was going to hurt.

Lord Baelish possessed an alarmingly strong arm for such a compact man.

 _Worse,_ Sansa thought. If she knew anything about her father it was that he was an exceptionally thorough and patient lord.

Sansa felt an anger boil inside her. At herself – for being so careless as to earn a spanking, and at Lord Baelish – her clever father who couldn’t think up a way around punishing her, who insisted upon disciplining her. _It wasn't fair._

The second blow hit just as hard as the first, and Sansa cried out, gripping the bedsheets.

Any hope she had for this to be a light and brief session went out the window. Littlefinger was determined to make her remember this punishment, not to let her make a mistake like this again.

The third and forth hits were near her thighs, and Sansa jumped and wiggled, bending her knees and kicking her legs to relieve the sting.

By the sixth blow she stopped counting and started begging.

“No more, please! I’ve learned my lesson, I have!”

She didn’t care if servants listened at the door. She just wanted Lord Baelish to stop.

He said nothing, only continued spanking.

If she had counted, Sansa would have known that it was around the tenth smack that she started crying. And her babbling had taken a decidedly juvenile turn. She panicked that she would no longer be able to hold herself down, and was terrified at Lord Baelish’s reaction should she fail.

“Father, no! Please, I won’t do it again. I will be more careful, father, please, I don’t need any more.”

The paddling continued, though somewhere along the line, Lord Baelish had been forced to hold Sansa’s back to help keep her in place.

When he’d determined she’d been punished enough, Sansa hadn’t even realized it was over. Her face was wet with sweat and tears, the bed beneath her too. Her bottom was so sore, she was sure the slightest touch would feel like fire. She lay, limp across the bed, too broken and humbled to even consider what to do next without her father telling her. She dared not stand, dared not put her hands back to rub out the sting.

“Shh…” she heard her Lord Baelish’s raspy whisper above her. Felt his hands stroke her hair. “You’ve atoned for your behavior.”

A strange relief washed over her.

“I want you to remain in this position until I return.”

He said it matter-of-fact, and left, unworried that she might not comply.

Sansa stayed bent, grateful for the cessation of the cruel paddle blows, grateful for the cool air upon her rear. Grateful Lord Baelish had forgiven her.

And, so far deep down she did not consciously know it, a tiny kernel that was grateful her stern father had disciplined her, took root.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's wrong with me? *hides face*
> 
> We've got a bit of Sadist Bae here (even though he sees himself differently).
> 
> This is a short chapter and it's all dark. There's no lighting in this story but GASLIGHTING!

Petyr returned to find his darling girl still prostate at the foot of the bed, crying softly. 

His lips twitched at the sight of the red stripes he’d painted across her milky bottom.

When he was a boy, newly fostered at Riverrun, a rare spring snow had fallen one night, and the children were delighted to awaken to a world of glittering white.

Exploring further than the others, Petyr distinctly remembered licking his lips when he beheld the unmarred expanse of a pristine field before him. There was a thrill in knowing his boots would be the first to taint it, would perhaps be the only footfalls to make an impression on that bit of soft, yielding snow. He paraded, each step he took a pleasure, a pact, almost.

I besmear, you bear. I soil, you submit.

_I mark, you moan._

What would Cat think of her daughter now? Naked from the waist down, lined with proof of Petyr’s discipline across her precious Sansa’s bare arse?

_Oh, how the Starks and Tullys have fallen, to have their prized, eldest daughter whimper at the feet of the man they looked down upon._

“Alayne,” Petyr called the false name, softly. “You may rise.”

The girl pushed herself off the bed, with effort. She wiped her nose and glanced around, unsure what to do without instruction.

“Lay down on the bed,” Lord Baelish said. “I’ll tend to you.”

She looked confused, but too sore or too spent to do anything but comply.

“The other way,” Petyr corrected, and at her puzzled expression he said, “face down.”

Sansa turned over, laying gently on her stomach. Petyr approached the bed, savoring the moment.

“I’m going to put a cream on you. It will help with the healing. I will need to lift your dress again. If you don’t want me to, if you’d rather do it yourself, I can leave the jar here.”

Wide-eyed, Sansa looked up at him and it was all he could do to keep his cock down and his hands at his side. Her plump lips quivered, her cheeks pinked with shame, her face was wet with tears he longed to kiss away. She’d been punished, but she hadn’t been pleasured. He wasn’t free to give her that half of the equation. Not yet.

He’d leave if she wanted him to, but he was hoping things could progress at this juncture.

“I’ll go,” Petyr said, placing the jar on the bedside table and moving away. 

“Wait, please-” Sansa whispered, brow furrowed. 

Lord Baelish could read everything in her face. She wasn’t a skilled liar on a good day. Eventually, he’d have to teach her enough to deceive others. Now, her emotions clearly in turmoil, she didn’t want to be alone and didn’t know why.

There was only one person to cling to. The one who punished her.

“Help me, please,” she said, granting him the permission he sought.

Petyr nodded, solemnly, betraying nothing of the arousal coursing through his veins as he reached for the hem of his darling daughter’s gown. He lifted the soft skirts, bunching them low on her back, giving him clear access to all of her rear, and just a glimpse of the treasures between.

Petyr dipped his fingers into the jar, coating them with a medicinal, white cream, and brought them to Sansa’s hot flesh. She jumped at the coolness, a soft _oh_ escaping her lips.

Slowly, Petyr spread the cream across the mound of her left buttock, relishing the freedom to touch her so intimately. He repeated the process on her right cheek, making sure to caress every inch of her skin. Whenever he reached a particularly sore area, Sansa would whimper, burying her head in the pillow and kicking her legs slightly. It was so endearing; Petyr couldn’t help but grin. There was something more delicious now than when he’d had her entirely bare and at his disposal, tied to the bed. Because this time, she was aware. This time, she connected the act to him. This time, she knowingly submitted to his will.

He suspected he’d stirred chaos at her core, confusion and humiliation and longing. Perhaps the first buds of arousal. Time would tell.

He dipped into the jar again, and now rubbed the tops of her thighs, where he knew the pain would be greater on such sensitive flesh. He hadn’t whipped a whore in years, not personally. But in his early days, he’d honed his talents on the errant bottoms of several young girls.

It was all just another day at work.

Not one of them was like his sweetling.

Therein lay the double-edged sword. He admired her intelligence. But once she began to shed the protective cocoon she’d spun from recent events, truths would come to light. And she wouldn’t enjoy lying to herself, as so many men and women seemed to do.

Sansa hissed, then let out a low moan. 

Had he spanked her too hard?

_Another layer of cream then._

Before Petyr finished his work, he let his hands dip further with each pass, deeper into the crevice of her ass. None of it was unrespectable, yet. Just enough to push the boundary a hair’s breadth, after each spanking.

By the time he had her where he wanted, Sansa would think nothing of spreading her legs for him, giving him entrance where he wanted to go.

“All done,” he told her, with a gentle pat to her bottom. Reluctantly, Petyr draped the gown back over her rear, covering what he should have full access to view and touch as he pleased, whenever and however he wanted.

_Soon enough,_ he reminded, attempting to will his erection to soften before she turned.

Gingerly, Sansa pulled herself into a sitting position.

“Lord Bae – father – I’m so sorry,” she said. Then, surprising him, she tucked her chin and threw her arms around him, crying into his shoulder.

_Fuck._ It was almost too much to take. How could he leave her like this? She’d _earned_ her pleasure, yet he was unable to provide any assistance. Not to mention, he needed to leave the room as soon as possible, to take care of his own.

“Hush,” he soothed, patting her hair. “All is forgiven. I’m very proud of you. You remind me a lot of your mother.”

“I… do?” Sansa asked.

“Oh yes. You know, when Lord Hoster Tully needed to discipline your mother and your aunt, Lysa always chose to employ a whipping girl. I have no doubt she would have done the same for Lord Robin, whether he’d been sickly or not. But your mother, brave as she was, elected to bear each punishment herself. I know he would never say it, but your grandfather seemed to hold Cat in a higher esteem for her courage. Such spirit made her a good match for your father. With the integrity you showed tonight, I am sure one day you will find a husband of equal honor.”

“Do you really think so?” Sansa asked, a hint of caution in her voice. 

“My darling, I will accept nothing less. No man but the best in the Vale, the best in the Riverlands, may ask for your hand.”

“Thank you, father,” Sansa said slowly, releasing her hold on him. “But I… I’m not ready to marry yet. Please tell me you don’t plan to marry me off anytime soon?”

She bit her lip and toyed with her dress, clearly nervous at the idea of being sold to a husband once more – whether the bridegroom was in possession of valor or not. Her experience at the hands of her kidnapper had steered her clear of men for the time being.

Well. Men other than him. 

Petyr lifted her chin so that she would be forced to see the sincerity in his eyes.

“I won’t marry you to anyone until you’re ready. And even then, not without your input in the decision.”

Smiling, Sansa flung her arms around him again in a final hug.

“Now, to bed,” Petyr said.

Once the door closed, he walked with purpose to his solar, cock straining against his breeches, feeling like a man possessed.

The way she begged beneath his ministrations. The way she called him father, _pleading._ The way she trusted he'd punish her as much as needed, and submitted to his judgement. The image of her helpless bottom squirming to escape his blows, the way her feet danced to relieve the pain. The way her skin turned from milky white to pink to red. All of it echoed in his head, all of it imprinted on his mind. Petyr had a fine memory, he wasn’t like to forget a moment of it.

Not that that was any cause to stop him from continually creating fresh memories of his girl begging beneath his firm hand.

Why, with each new turn of the moon she’d likely find herself just as turned around and bared over his lap.

Petyr wasn’t a sadist, not like that Ramsey boy who lorded over Sansa's ancestral home. But they’d fight one battle at a time. The sooner Sansa gave herself over to him, the sooner she could earn pleasure for her penance.

Lord Baelish didn’t have a particular fondness for winter, but he was looking forward to the next few months, stuck inside the castle with his sweetling.

#

Sansa’s mouth formed a wide _O_ when she opened the box, delighted to find another Mockingbird token. It meant so much more than just a present to please her.

The gift meant belonging. To a house. She couldn’t be a Stark and live. And even if it were revealed, the traitorous name was so reviled, and her family all scattered or dead, she didn’t even know what it meant to be a Stark anymore.

The gift meant her father had forgiven her, really forgiven her. For losing the first Mockingbird jewel.

Sansa beamed, turning and lifting her hair so that Lord Baelish might put the necklace on her straight away.

It was a gleaming silver Mockingbird on a short, silver chain, resting just below her collarbone. The figurine was smaller than Petyr’s pin, but similar to his in that it was plain - no jewel dotted the eye this time. As soon as the necklace clicked into place, Sansa’s hands flew to the charm, stroking it. It was so delicate and beautiful and just perfect. She’d always loved birds, dragonflies, butterflies… anything that could fly, really. But the Mockingbird was perfect because it was Lord Baelish’s sigil, and he’d saved her so many times, and it was like a promise that he would always keep her safe.

#

As she undressed that night, Sansa realized that once the necklace clicked into place, it locked permanently with some kind of clever mechanism, so that she could not remove to sleep, or bathe, or wear any other jewelry at any time.

Slightly embarrassed, she said nothing to Lord Baelish. He must have thought her too irresponsible, having lost the last Mockingbird token, to trust her with something she could remove. Besides, what did it matter? She loved the necklace so much, she didn’t want to take it off anyway. While she was no longer a girl, the type who might think the necklace like a magical talisman to guard her from evil, it _did_ come with some protection. Because with its permanence, Lord Baelish was claiming her as his daughter, and unless he choose to reveal her, or the roots of her hair grew out, no one would ever know.

The chafing of the chain might make it a little unpleasant to sleep in… and sometimes, it’s immovability gave Sansa the uncomfortable feeling of being restrained or tied somehow… as when she’d been kidnapped. But she put those thoughts from her mind.

_Lord Baelish only wants to keep me safe,_ she told herself. _Father knows what’s best for me. I’ll get used to it._

She told herself the same thing the next time she was sent to her room to await Lord Baelish’s punishment.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a little Knives Out reference, and more plot this time. I hope you like this chapter!

Lord Baelish _spoiled_ her.

Never so much that anyone would guess her more than bastard born.

But discreet trinkets found their way into her room, whenever he could get away with it. Silken small clothes and bath oils with exotic scents from across the Narrow Sea. Blackberry wine and lemon cakes. Several new books in the library he knew suited her taste, and a ribbon for her hair, the lightest shade of sapphire blue; a cornflower blue, perhaps. Sansa could never decide, though she turned it in the sunlight many times, and finally determined it to be, with a bit of flattered pride, the exact color of her eyes.

Were Lord Baelish her real father, she’d certainly grow up vain and overindulged. Sansa wondered if he doted on his late wife in such a manner. It didn’t seem he and her aunt got along, even before the trouble started. But would his next lady be pampered to such extent? Who would Lord Baelish take as his wife? Surely, he was not so old as to no longer consider it. And even if he were twenty or thirty years beyond what he was now, men never seemed to age beyond wanting a wife -- usually a young and pretty one -- unlike widowed women, who often had enough of the whole affair by a certain age.

Perhaps Lord Baelish would marry Myranda someday, Sansa thought. An unpleasant feeling tightened in her belly, picturing Petyr draping Lady Myranda in jewels and gowns and taking her hand to lead her to supper.

If Sansa knew anything though, he’d certainly put his foot down when it came to Myranda’s headstrong nature. Her father was quite strict in some regards. It seemed almost as if Lord Baelish spanked her before she did anything wrong at all, just to make sure she didn’t.

Sansa never got used to that part of being his daughter. He always insisted on spanking her bare bottom, usually over his knees. Not only was it ridiculous to be chastised in such a manner at her age, but Lord Baelish was not, in fact, her father, and she blushed furiously every time. In the beginning, she could scarcely breathe for the shame of it. She’d practically throw herself over his legs, to avoid having to meet his eyes. And it was harder still after, when he gathered her into his lap, his _lap._ She wasn’t his real daughter, it was hardly appropriate for her to be seated in Lord Baelish’s _lap,_ even if he meant to soothe her tears.

Lately… when he hugged her to his chest or laid on her the bed to tend her sore bottom… Sansa felt strange.

She didn’t know any other way to explain it. A strange sensation, something warm growing low in her belly when her father rubbed cream on her. His hands felt… welcome or… pleasant? She wasn’t quite sure.

It wasn’t just in her head. Between her legs, she’d almost always need to wipe the stickiness that developed. She kept a cloth by her bed, to wash up as soon as her father closed the door.

Sansa longed for another lady to talk to, someone of whom she could ask questions. Her handmaiden in King’s Landing, Shae, might have been able to help her _and_ keep secrets. But there was no one in the Eyrie she could trust.

No one except Lord Baelish.

When the nightmares began, gratitude filled Sansa for the guise of Baelish parentage. It allowed Lord Petyr to come into her room at night, when she awoke with a terror. Or stay and watch over her until she fell asleep, on particularly troubling evenings.

Sansa thought that she had dealt with her fears from all that happened in King’s Landing, but it seemed the mind worked in mysterious ways, and the effects were delayed. It wasn’t until many moons later when she began to awake in a sweat, or have trouble getting to sleep in the first place.

Lord Baelish’s presence was a gift from the gods on those nights. He’d lay, propped up beside her, and stroke Sansa’s hair until she dozed off.

Many times, like now, Sansa awoke with a start not long after, to find he remained: a quiet, solid, reassuring presence by her side.

Keeping her safe from harm.

From the Lannisters and kidnappers and all the horrible men and women of Westeros who wanted to do horrible things to her.

Shielding her with his power.

Protecting her with his…

She almost thought, _love,_ before falling back asleep.

#

Sansa’s heart nearly stopped when she realized what she’d done.

The bottles looked so similar, she’d given Lord Robin the _wrong_ medicine.

His cries and shrieks echoed through the castle, though Sansa later learned it wasn’t from any ill-effects to his body, but rather the young lord’s tantrum at finding out he’d been subjected to the error. One would have thought he’d been poisoned from his shouting.

The maester rushed to his side with sweet sleep.

And, with a quiet fury in his eyes, Lord Baelish sent Sansa to her chambers.

Her legs shook as she waited at the edge of her bed, butterflies in terror, frenzying about her stomach.

Her father entered the room wearing his long, black tunic, carrying something insidious he called a tawse.

#

_I will never, never, make that mistake again,_ Sansa thought, as she sobbed into her pillow.

Lord Baelish had been so angry with her, he’d given her, undoubtedly, the worst punishment she’d yet to receive.

Now, laying face-down on her bed, she didn’t care at all that he could see her most private areas. She didn’t think about anything other than the fire in her backside. Gratitude washed over Sansa, deepening with each pass of his soothing hands on her bottom. The evil tawse bit between her cheeks, causing her to unreservedly spread her legs so that Lord Baelish could rub cream everywhere it burned.

He was slower than before, caressing longer, because the spanking had been harsher than any before. Time passed and eventually Sansa sighed, falling into a puzzling, dreamlike state, despite the pain.

When her father’s fingers grazed the lips of her sex, Sansa stiffened, but said nothing. Did he know what he’d just touched?

He must not have, because he did it _again._

Her eyes, previously closed, flew open.

But Lord Baelish continued rubbing her, soothing, entirely unaware.

Sansa swallowed. His fingertips only just barely touched her core with every pass. _He can’t tell,_ she thought. And Sansa, mortified, couldn’t tell him.

Her breathing sped. _What a sensation._

Every time his hand moved up, away, she ached for its return.

When it did, her breathing sped, her hips seemed to move, imperceptibly, toward his fingers.

Turmoil riled her mind. She’d just suffered such a spanking under her father’s hands and now, unbeknownst to him, they were bringing her something like pleasure. She wanted… something.

Oh. _There,_ his fingers again and _oh,_ why did it feel good each time they dipped low?

Less than a minute passed when Sansa felt something big building up inside her. Terrifying yet desired at the same time. She didn’t know whether to run from it or chase it, and soon enough she didn’t have a choice. Unstoppable, a shaking began between her legs, wrapped her mind in a heady bliss, seizing control of her thoughts and movements without her permission. It was much like one of the young lord’s fits, except not like it at all. A great wave crashed over Sansa, tossing her about the seas and pulling her, weightless, into the dark depths of the water and she _wanted to be taken._

She heard her rapid breathing and her stunted moans from a faraway place. She knew she shook, but could no more halt the quivering of her legs than stop the beating of her heart, which pounded in her ears.

A cry escaped her lips and her mind blanked at the height of it.

Resurfacing, she found the strange sea of bliss left her clammy, a sheen of sweat down her back, sticking stray hairs to her neck. Her mouth had grown dry from both her cries as she was spanked and… whatever had just happened.

It felt… shameful, lustful, whatever it was. Women weren’t supposed to derive pleasure from between their legs, only men. That’s what the Seven-Pointed Star taught, and she’d never heard any respectable lady say otherwise. And, by the gods, not from men they weren’t married to! Men who were twice as old and posing as fathers!

_If that’s what had, in fact, happened?_

Sansa had never been more confused or humiliated, than by the uncontrolled writhing of her body.

She could feel the heat of Lord Baelish’s stare, boring into the back of her head.

She felt his weight leave the bed, heard him step away.

Oh gods. She’d done something very wrong. He was angry with her.

Sansa scurried into a sitting position. Reluctantly, she turned her head over her shoulder, lifting hooded eyes.

_Lord Baelish wasn’t looking at her._

Oh gods. He was so ashamed of her, he didn’t even want to look at her.

Sansa didn’t know what to do. Tears pooled in her eyes.

“Father, I’m… sorry…” she said, not even sure what she was apologizing for, just knowing she’d done something very, very wrong.

When he left the room without a word, the tears spilled over her cheeks.

#

Sitting at his desk, Lord Baelish wore a dark tunic, hugging his trim figure. The silver at the buckles brought out the silver in his hair.

Sansa’s cheeks flamed. They hadn’t seen one another all day, and she couldn’t imagine what she’d face, when he called her into his solar that night.

“We must discuss a matter of the utmost importance,” Lord Baelish said.

Slowly, Sansa raised her eyes.

“I’m arranging for you to marry Harrold Hardyng. After Lord Robin, he’s the next in line to become Lord of the Vale. Harry the heir, he is called.”

Sansa’s eyes widened, her stomach dropped.

_No._

Whatever she thought she might hear upon coming to Lord Baelish’s room that evening, this was never, in her wildest imagination, considered.

“No, father, please. Please, don’t marry me to some lord I’ve never met.”

“Of course, you will meet him before it’s announced. We’ll need Harrold to agree to the match-”

“No, please!” Sansa interrupted, and Petyr raised his eyebrows.

“You said you wouldn’t marry me until I was ready.”

Lord Baelish paused, running his hand over his beard.

“Alayne. You are ready.” He titled his head, studying her. “Do you understand what happened last night?”

Sansa squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head rapidly. Her brow furrowed and her lips pursed, flinching at the memory.

Lord Baelish rose from his chair. He came to stand by Sansa, licking his lips.

“Sweetling… I regret that you don’t have a mother to discuss such… delicate matters with you.”

Petyr laid his hands on her shoulders and her lip quivered as she fought not to cry again. He was so close, she could see every gray hair on his moustache. His eyes were dark pools, only the barest rim of green-gray at the edges as they continued to study her. His nose, straight and sharp, almost touched hers.

“What happened last night is… what happens between a man and a woman when they take one another to bed.”

Sansa’s mind, slow to understanding or wanting to reject what she heard, couldn’t make immediate sense of his words.

“I know you’re well aware that a man needs to… finish… in order to make a baby. But a woman often feels pleasure as well, if she’s fortunate enough to have a lover who considers her enjoyment.”

Sansa wanted to die. She wanted the floor to swallow her whole. Anything so that she would not have to face Lord Baelish.

“Sweetling, you experienced such a pleasure last night.”

If lightning struck her down at that moment, Sansa would have welcomed it. Her cheeks flamed so hot she thought they’d burn to the touch.

Thankfully, Petyr sensed her discomfort and moved his hands from her shoulders. He rubbed her forearms once, then stepped back.

Returning to his desk, he sat down and, perhaps uncomfortable with the conversation as well, looked like he wanted to close it. Looked as if he’d soon busy himself back in his work, in other matters. As if Sansa’s world wasn’t falling apart, _again._

Had she acted the whore? Is that why he needed to marry her off? Because he was ashamed?

Without looking up, Lord Baelish said, “We’ll reveal your heritage on your wedding day. Don a maiden’s cloak of gray and white. The Lords Declarant will be fighting with one another to be the first to go to war for you, for you and Harry, the young couple, to win back your home.”

Winterfell? Lord Baelish always had plans to help her regain her home, but now? With Harry-the-heir? That couldn't be the best way.

Why him? This Harry boy wasn’t even the lord now. The Knights of the Vale followed Robin, and Robin followed Petyr. Didn’t it make more sense to seize and hold power in their tight little circle?

“I’ll send word to Lady Waynwood on the morrow.”

“Wait, please,” Sansa begged. The idea of another husband terrified her. She didn’t want one _before_ she’d been kidnapped. And after… the thought of a man’s hands on her body… Sansa’s mind went back to that dark place and she shivered, hard.

_No, not again. I can’t let another man touch me again._

Unconsciously, her hand found the silver Mockingbird, always at her throat.

An idea came to her.

_Oh, but it was clever._

“You said I would have a say in my husband,” Sansa plead, desperation edging her voice.

Lord Baelish nodded, giving her some of his attention once more, though Sansa could tell there was an undertone of politeness in it -- he was placating her, ever the patient man.

For the first time two days, she lifted her chin.

Well. What would Lord Baelish think of her once she revealed the cunning plan she’d just concocted?

She’d been learning the game under him these many months. But now, the student surpassed the teacher. Because she saw something he didn’t. Because he would have never thought she’d consider it…

“If you’re going to reveal me anyway, I have a better idea.”

Lord Baelish put down the quill he’d recently held, now giving Sansa his full attention.

It did funny things to her. His eyes. There seemed to be a light behind them. Dancing with a secret he held.

Sansa chewed her lip.

Lord Baelish was a handsome man, wasn’t he?

She hadn’t given it much thought before, but now… with what she was suggesting…

She licked her lips, gathering courage.

_Be brave,_ she told herself. _Like a lady in a song._

“If I need to marry, then…” A blush rose again. “Then instead of marrying me to Harry and revealing who I am… you can...” Sansa straightened her spine, but her words ended with the hint of a question. “…you can marry me instead?”


	7. Chapter 7

Sometimes he thought she would be the death of him, if she ever learned how much power she had.

Even now, Petyr’s cock stirred to life beneath his desk. Most of it caused by the memory of Sansa’s writhing the night before, though Petyr had to admit, some of his arousal was from how pleased he was with himself, and this perfect moment.

Sansa Stark, more beautiful than her mother had ever been and, higher in rank too (in the past and with his help, the near future) stood before him, hoping he’d marry her.

He, Littlefinger. The boy kicked out of Riverrun, the man her mother scorned, the low lord the Lannisters rejected as a suitable husband for one so fair and highborn.

The one whose hand in marriage would help him take everything. It was only fair. With his help alone could she rise, after all.

She was the perfect card to play, who also happened to be the beauty he most desired. Or was she his most desired plaything, who just happened to be the ideal pawn in this game?

Did it fucking matter?

It was so ideal, Petyr would have thought it predestined, if he believed in such things. If he hadn’t leveraged every opportunity, plotted and connived and moved every godsdamn pawn on the board for years, just to line up this moment.

No, it wasn’t fated by the gods, old or new. _He’d_ done it all. The closest thing to a god was the player who saw the whole of the board, the one controlling all others, the greatest puppeteer pulling everyone’s strings.

And that was him.

And this exquisite creature before him was indeed a goddess, tailored to stand by his side.

Did his sweetling peak so easily for all, or was it just by his ministrations? He’d barely touched her when she came apart in his hands.

They’d never know the answer, because Petyr would never let another man within ten feet of her without his watchful eye.

Little she did escaped him. He observed her shifting her weight. Saw the indent of her cheek as she chewed the inside of her mouth, trying to hide her discomfort.

He’d let her wait.

He could tell when she’d given herself firm words of encouragement, for her spine would straighten and her shoulders would square, at the reminder. 

Having her mind so bare and exposed to his examination was as erotic as having her legs wide open for his will.

Petyr propped one elbow on his chair, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together.

But it was something he was going to have to teach her to hide, if she were to move from pawn to player. His equal. His _near_ equal.

Now that he had her more securely under his sway, her instruction could progress. Along with her education in… other matters.

He let out an exaggerated sigh.

“Alayne, sweetling. You know not what you are saying.”

She flashed that determined set of her jaw before she countered, “I do.”

Petyr pretended to dismiss the matter.

“You can’t truly mean to suggest we wed.”

“Yes, I do,” she repeated.

“And children? You want children with me, Alayne?” He shook his head.

Sansa opened her mouth and paused. No… seeing only the fastest way to safety, she hadn’t fully considered that eventuality. At least, not so much as to think on what was required to make them. There hadn’t been time. Her mind was clever, not quick. Not yet. She hadn’t played out the sequence of events leading to many nights in Petyr’s bed, as he knew the girl imagined currently, from the blushes on her face.

“I…” she began, and Petyr narrowed his eyes, watching with intrigue. What would she say about what they surely now _both_ pictured?

“I…” She looked down, fingers rubbing at the folds of her dress. “I wouldn’t mind having children with you…”

Petyr had to stifle a smirk. A lessor man might take offense to that tepid pronouncement.

But then, she added, “that is, if you… if you wanted me to bear your children. I know I am… I’ve been betrothed many times and I’m a traitor’s daughter and I’ve been _soiled.”_

Her eyes squeezed shut at the last word, remembering her time in the kidnapper’s bed.

Seven hells, if she thought _that_ soiled her, what would she think of herself by the time he was through?

His lips twitched at that _delectable_ thought.

Noting her obvious distress, Petyr allowed himself to comfort the girl, standing up and sweeping her into his arms.

“Sweetling, any man would be lucky to have you as a wife. But how could you ever look at me that way? I am twice your age. I have been your father these past few months, and I cannot be anything other, not yet. Now is not the right time for revelations. Cersei needs more distraction before the deed can be safely done.”

Sansa looked up at him, breath catching. He could read a childlike yearning in her eyes. Not bold and hungry, but there all the same. Innocent, curious. The first stirrings of a desire he’d stoked with his own two hands.

“I _can,”_ she insisted.

Petyr brushed his thumb across her cheek, sadness turning down the corner of his mouth, touching his eyes. He darkened his gaze, pulling back.

“I cannot.”

Sansa titled her head, searching his face. Her brow knit. 

“Why not?” she asked.

Petyr sighed, audibly. He paced to the window. Despite the moonless night, he pushed aside the curtain, gazing out. Slowly, he turned back to Sansa.

“Alayne… your aunt… she suffered under the marriage to Jon Arryn. So many miscarriages and stillborns. Having to face a man she did not desire, a man much older than she, night after night. It turned her… cold.”

Petyr again brought his hands to his face, rubbing his beard.

“I grew up with Lysa and I cared for her. I might have loved her, if she let me. But she never wanted my affections in bed, and I wasn’t aware until it was too late.”

He paused, letting Sansa consider, before continuing.

“Lady Lysa didn’t want any man to even touch her. Oh, she gave a good show of it outside our solar. But once the doors closed, she couldn’t stand to do the things a man and a woman should enjoy.

I’m sure it did not escape your notice that we had a troubled marriage. Your aunt couldn’t bear to allow me into her bed, but couldn’t bear the thought of me finding comfort elsewhere. She suspected infidelity with every lady who crossed my path. Eventually, a compromise was reached where she found an acceptable alternative. I didn’t want to but… there came a point where I was beginning to consider it. This was about the time you became a victim of her jealous rage, and your aunt had her… fall.”

Petyr again paused, watched the wheels turn in Sansa’s head.

“What I’m trying to say, Alayne, is your aunt thought it best for me to visit one of my own establishments.”

He shook his head, sadly. “I could never do that to you, sweetling. I couldn’t marry you, and bed a whore.”

#

“But I… I do want children,” Sansa whispered.

Petyr smiled, but it did not touch his eyes. Lightly, he pressed his hand to his temple in a gesture Sansa thought might have been a reluctance to continue.

“I keep a bottle of Arbor Gold in my desk. Sit. Let’s have a drink before we discuss any further.”

He quickly poured two glasses and Sansa gratefully drank a deep sip. What had Lord Baelish once said? _It gives some men courage._ Well, she was quite out of her depth and appreciated any bravery it might impart. 

Petyr considered her as she took another few sips. Generally, they sat with ease in comfortable silence together, but now the air between them was different. This was as tense as when he came into her room to punish her; worse even, as the stakes were higher.

Remembering how she’d behaved the night before, Sansa took another long sip.

“Alayne. You’re old enough now to understand that more happens between a man and a woman than bedding alone, than uniting for the purpose of creating children. I’m so much older than you,” he added, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. “And I daresay my time as a brothel keep has made it’s mark upon me. There are things I enjoy that I wouldn’t share with you, that I couldn’t share. That I’m sure your lady mother never told you about.”

Sansa’s mind raced. _What things?_ She felt unladylike even trying to imagine. 

“And after your aunt… I couldn’t be fair to myself and enter into another marriage without the assurance that such… compatibility exists, beforehand. So you see, if I were to marry you, I’d undoubtedly have to seek satisfaction outside our marriage bed. And I do not wish to father a bastard, nor could I ever hurt you like that, sweetling. To find myself between the legs of a whore and disgrace my loving wife?” Lord Baelish shook his head, making face that showed his distaste.

Sansa remained quiet for long moment, turning over Petyr’s words, trying to see through them, to what he _wasn’t_ saying.

She trusted Lord Baelish with her life, didn’t he trust her? With his happiness? She was worthy of her father’s trust, she could prove it, if that was what he required. 

Sitting back, she folded her arms.

“I know what you are doing,” she protested, slowly. “You’re pushing me away, trying to frighten me. Or maybe you _are_ concerned. You think that because I suffered at the hands of a man I did not want, like my aunt did, you think that I will be cold as well. A cold, Tully fish. You think that because you are so much older than me, that I could not desire you.”

She leaned forward, gathering all her courage to hold his gaze.

“But, father,” Sansa said, whispering. “I think I could. I do. Desire you.”

Her face flamed, nearly matching the red of her hair. Now her eyes faltered, lowering.

“I’m not a stupid little girl anymore. I haven’t been for a long time. I understand what happens between a man and a woman, other than just the bedding.”

She licked her lips, still gazing downward. “If you show me, teach me what you like, I can… do those things. With you.”

Yet they both undeniably heard the question in her voice. _Whatever those things are._

Oh, but he’d teach her.

Sansa dared look up again. Lord Baelish shook his head, but his eyes had softened, his _resolve,_ softened. Had she persuaded him?

Something changed in his expression.

Tentatively, Petyr’s hands were upon her face and he brought his mouth close – _he was going to kiss her._

Lord Baelish’s lips pressed upon hers and Sansa was so startled that he had to probe, prying her mouth open with his tongue. Sansa complied, feeling foolish that she hadn’t parted her lips naturally, without instruction, especially after her little speech about being so grown-up.

But then, it felt _delightful_ and her heart raced and she sighed into it. She tasted the Arbor Gold on his tongue and wondered if he tasted it on hers too.

Lord Baelish knew how to kiss. And why not? He had years of experience. His mouth was gentle, but his hands upon her cheeks were firm, holding her head in place.

When he pulled away, Sansa’s mouth remained parted, awed.

Wide-eyed, she waited to hear him speak.

Was her kiss adequate?

She was disappointed when he didn’t comment one way or the other.

Instead, running his fingers down her jawline, he said, “Let’s both take some time to think it over. I cannot marry again, not without knowing for sure that my bed wouldn’t grow cold. But Alayne, I could never make you do something you didn’t want to do.”

Petyr’s hands found her shoulders.

“You are beautiful and intelligent, sweetling. I’d be lucky to have you as a wife.”

Sansa was surprised how her heart swelled at his praise, and at the hope. Could this truly be a possibility? That she’d marry Lord Petyr Baelish? Her stomach felt funny at the thought – but it was a pleasurable sort of nervousness.

“Take some time and think about what you really want. Will you do me this favor, daughter? I can see you’re uneasy,” he said, rubbing her forearms. “I won’t force a marriage with Harry and I’ll hold off on any decisions for the time being. If you desire another match, other than Harry, we can discuss options together. But if this is what you truly want, you can… give me a sign. You don’t even have to say anything.”

He stroked one strand of auburn. “Why don’t you style your hair differently? Say, in two plaits? In my desk, I have another length of ribbon, matching the blue one I gave you before. If you truly want to marry me, braid your hair in two sections, tying each with the ribbon, and I’ll come to you that night.”

“Only if this is what you truly want, Alayne. And remember, you must remain my daughter at all times, no matter who you decide to marry. The betrothal must stay our secret until the time is right, and I can contrive more distractions to keep Cersei’s hands full.” 

Sansa eyes, a mixture of wary and wanting, searched his own. Wordlessly, she nodded, and rose to leave, returning to her chambers with her thoughts swimming.

Petyr sipped his wine and took his cock in his hand mere seconds after the door closed.

#

Three days later, Sansa came down to break her fast with her hair parted down the middle, two plaits falling on either side, secured at the end by soft blue ribbons.

Petyr’s tongue darted out, finding his lip with lascivious hunger.

After dropping her spoon, twice, Sansa claimed she wasn’t hungry and scurried back to her room. She said she thought she might be coming down with something. She needed to rest for the day. She didn’t want any food sent up. She never met Petyr’s eyes.

That was his sweetling. Bravery in fits and starts. Pushing out beyond the place where she felt comfortable, then quickly darting back, retreating into herself.

Petyr made sure he declared, voice elevated, that he’d check on his daughter’s health that evening.

Provide any _care_ she might require. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted this chapter to continue on to intimacies, but my work schedule has been thrown off by everything that's going on. Also, I've got about three more stories I'm thinking of! 
> 
> So I'm not sure when I'll get to the next part, and I know Petyr "pulls away" a bit here, but he'll be back to overtly domineering in the next chapter. Thank you for reading!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My partner looks over my fics before I post them, and after reading this chapter, he marched into the room and exclaimed, "Oh my god, you're going straight to hell!" 
> 
> To which I replied, "Good! Does the devil need ideas?" 
> 
> Nah, that's a lie. I simply said, "Relax, it's only fiction and I'm just messing around with a seriously dysfunctional version of this pairing." 
> 
> No, that's a lie too. In reality, I covered my face in my hands and laugh-whined, "I know!" 
> 
> So, everything is relative, but I think some parts are edgy here. Oh, and, there's a reference to the way perfumes are made. I was thinking about that scene in American Hustle - it's fascinating and true. If you want to watch, it begins at about 40 seconds. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0ZxAS5zmcps
> 
> Oh, and I forgot to mention! I wrote a short fic if anyone wants to give it a read. Just playing around with AU. https://lionessfics47.tumblr.com/post/613324652054446080/p-x-s-au-quick-fic-told-in-gifs-inspired-by-the

_It’s better to be standing,_ Sansa thought, pacing. 

But how?

With her arms at her sides or maybe… maybe holding something? Giving her hands something to do?

She wasn’t sure about that, but she was certain about standing. Whatever happened in life, it was best to meet it on one’s feet.

Although, it was probably also best to face fate wearing clothing, and Sansa stood only in her shift. Her maid had come to relieve her of her gown earlier that evening.

 _Lord Baelish’s orders,_ the maid had said, helping her into bed – and _my,_ _aren’t you pale and clammy?_ She remarked, pressing the back of her hand to Sansa’s forehead.

Sansa sprang back out of bed the moment she left.

She had half a mind to redress herself later, as best she could… but the thought of going against Lord Baelish’s wishes stayed her hands.

She had sworn to be amendable to what he desired, after all, and she did want to please him. He’d done ever so much for her. Sansa had, on several occasions, literally shuddered to think where she’d be without him. What would have happened, in that room, had he not come to save her.

The hour grew late. If her nerves didn’t settle she might swoon.

She wanted this, didn’t she? She didn’t want someone _else,_ that was certain. And Lord Baelish was handsome, titled, and clever and gallant and everything a man should be. He gave her butterflies whenever he neared.

But… this was all happening so soon…

The door opened, and Petyr Baelish filled the doorway, filled her vision.

 _Oh gods,_ she thought. _Make me brave._

His eyes roved, taking her in from her braids to her bare feet and back again. It pleased Sansa that the gleam in his eye perhaps meant he liked what he liked what he saw.

Did she?

Yes, she had to admit. His regal features, his mysterious eyes, his rich, dark head of hair. 

But… to admire him was one thing. To… lay with him, another.

The sharp click sounded with finality as Lord Baelish locked the door behind him.

Moving with purpose, he crossed the distance between them and took Sansa into his arms. Fear must have colored her face, for his mouth curled into a half-grin, and he said, “There will be no bedding until our wedding night.”

“But I thought-”

“There are other things we can do together, Alayne.”

His lips caressed the shell of her ear as he whispered, “Do you trust me?”

Nodding, Sansa relaxed. Petyr drew her hands to his mouth, kissing the knuckles on each. He led her to a chair, sat down and pulled her to stand before him.

“Take off your smallclothes, Alayne.”

Hesitating for a moment, Sansa slowly slid them down her legs, and stepped out.

“Come sit in my lap.”

She thought he might mean sideways or backwards, but Lord Baelish guided her onto his lap facing him, with her legs spread and her shift bunched around her hips.

The intimacy of such a position on _her father_ made Sansa’s pulse race, a sensation that only increased with his next action. Lord Baelish took shift's hem in his hands and lifted it up and over her head, so that Sansa sat naked before him.

As soon as her arms were free of the garment, she flung them across her chest, and her legs flexed, trying to hide her womanly parts,

“Put your arms at your sides, Alayne.” Lord Baelish whispered the command with patience, but it was unmistakably a command.

Sansa wished her hair was loose. Braided to the sides, there remained nothing for cover. Hands balled into tense fists, heart speeding, Sansa forced her arms down.

Her breasts rose and fell, nearly level with Petyr’s eyes. Her sex spread wide on his lap, though she angled her hips down to hide what she could. She felt so very exposed, with no where to go, sitting naked as her name day on Lord Baelish’s lap, feeling the heat of his gaze upon her bare skin.

“You are beautiful, sweetling. No less than I’d expect from mine own daughter.”

Sansa felt absurdly proud and confused by that statement. Excited and a bit repulsed. Like a heady perfume enveloped her mind, sweet flowers and just a kernel of something rotten, but _required,_ within the mixture.

“I’m not though. Your daughter. Not truly. I mean, I pretend to be Alayne but _you_ know. Lord Baelish-”

She was cut off by the lightening speed with which Petyr’s hand grabbed her face, forcefully. Her eyes widened as he squeezed her jaw just a bit too hard.

“I know what I know and you know and so do you. Some things are best left unsaid, sweetling.”

“Even when we are alone?” she whispered, as best she could beneath his hand.

“Especially when we are alone.”

Releasing his grip on her chin, Lord Baelish leaned forward and kissed her, sending bewildered butterflies about her stomach. He could anger so quickly! She’d always known that, but she thought that maybe, since they were going to be married, it might be different… somehow. 

Breaking apart, he said, “You must obey me as a wife obeys her husband, and as a daughter obeys her father. But you must always call me father, Alayne. Even we’re alone.”

Sansa nodded, deeply. She would have to mind her tongue. Better to think of him as father in her own head, to avoid speaking out of turn and ruining everything.

Lord Baelish took one nipple in his mouth and Sansa gasped. Her hands flew up, but it was like he knew, he was ready. Without lifting his head, he caught them. He gently pulled and held them back to her sides.

He repeated his attentions on the other breast. It felt good, but still, _wrong._ Her mind couldn’t make the shift from _older man who’d saved her_ , to _would-be husband,_ and all the while he had been and must remain her _father._ It was too many things at once, too many roles, for Sansa to make sense of it.

Maybe it was better not to try. Above all, Lord Baelish was her protector, and he’d proven repeatedly that he knew what was best for them both.

On that wisdom, Sansa tried her best not to squirm when one hand let her go, fingers trailing lower, down to her patch of red.

She surrendered when they slid inside, whimper muffled by pursed lips. Keeping her hands from impeding his discovery, she instead grabbed hold of her father’s shoulders to steady herself.

A tiny voice inside her head said, _let him do what he wants. He’s going to have his way anyway and you want to show him you’re not like your aunt, don’t you?_

He pushed further inside her womanhood and her head fell slightly back as she arched on instinct.

 _"Ah,”_ she moaned, as he slowly pumped in and out, her lips mouthing a wordless _o_ of surprise as he explored her. The longer he drove his fingers into her, the louder the embarrassing sucking sounds of wetness grew.

She was panting by the time he removed his hand, but she hadn’t reached that wonderful peak she had before.

When her father inserted his fingers in his mouth to lick them clean, Sansa couldn’t stop herself from bringing her own hand to her mouth to cover it as she gasped, wide-eyed.

Lord Baelish’s own eyes changed from single-minded lust to amusement, nay, _delight,_ at her innocence. The self-consciousness that rose within Sansa abated once she realized he wasn’t at all displeased and she flashed a nervous, asymmetrical smile.

Curiously, Sansa realized, there was no mistake she could make - nothing she could do or be that would upset her father. He made her feel beautiful no matter how she looked, even at her worst. He guided her through her inexperience with utmost patience.

The only thing she could ever do to displease him was to disobey him.

As long as she didn’t defy him, he’d never have cause to spank her.

Although, certainly, he couldn’t mean to subject her to such punishments any longer, now that they progressed to intended husband and wife?

The thought made Sansa’s stomach feel funny.

She wasn’t sure how to navigate this murky role. What were the expected behaviors? She didn’t know what to do, exactly, unless he told her.

As if reading her thoughts, he did.

“I want you to kiss me as a wife kisses her husband,” he said. 

Sansa licked and parted her lips, but Lord Baelish shook his head.

“A dutiful wife kisses her husband everywhere, Alayne, not just on the lips. But especially, on his cock.”

Sansa’s cheeks would have burned at the word alone, but the suggestion itself reddened her down her neck.

“Can you do that for me, daughter? Can you take my cock in your mouth, and kiss it?”

_Could she?_

Was this the _other things_ he spoke of?

Sansa guessed it wasn’t so different from when a man kissed a woman between her legs. She would never forget when she experienced _that._

She had thought… she didn’t know what she thought _exactly_ about the night, but she expected it to be more like it had been during that ordeal. Laying there. On the bed. While Lord Baelish did things to her. Isn’t that what generally occurred between a man and a woman?

She hadn’t imagined doing anything to him.

Swallowing thickly, Sansa nodded.

“Get on your knees, sweetling,” he said, softly, with a hand on her shoulder to guide her.

Sansa sank to the ground, almost in a daze.

“Take off my britches,” he said.

Wide-eyed, Sansa reached up to help him undo his laces. He lifted his hips to help her slide the garment down past his knees.

Sansa _stared._

Lord Baelish’s cock – huge and erect – commanded attention. It frightened her, but also stirred a heat, low in her belly.

Thinking it best to get it over with quickly, Sansa leaned forward and placed a delicate kiss on it. She had done it so swiftly, she wasn’t even sure on which part the kiss landed – the head, the side, somewhere in between.

His cock _twitched,_ as if it reached for the return of her mouth.

“Kiss my cock as you kiss my mouth, Alayne. With your tongue. Open your lips and caress it with your tongue.”

Sansa’s head spun. She couldn’t have been more shocked if he tasked her with brushing the hair on a dragon.

“Take all of me in your mouth, sweetling.”

_Did it even fit?_

It felt like a point of no return, to put Lord Baelish’s manhood in her mouth. Crossing a line. A good line, though. On the other side, when she proved she wasn’t cold, he would become her husband, always keep her safe and loved. 

Opening as wide as she could, Sansa slowly inched her head down and onto Petyr’s erection, astounded all the while.

She heard his hiss of breath above her and then –

“Good, good, now close… lips. No teeth, gentle. As if you’re licking the icing from a lemon cake you do not wish to bite. Up and down, that’s it…” His words came low and stunted, as if it were difficult to speak.

Sansa did as she was bid, moving her head up and down, stunned by the intimacy, by such eroticism. Lord Baelish, her father, _in her mouth._ If it wasn’t happening at that moment, she wouldn’t have believed it possible.

“Deeper, sweetling,” he rasped. Sansa felt two hands on her head, pushing her down further, gagging her.

 _“Mm,”_ she mumbled a protest, but obeyed, an ache beginning in her jaw.

“Alayne, you’re… natural. I’m going to come… you must swallow every drop.”

 _Every drop of what?_ She wondered, stupidly.

“That’s it, daughter.” He groaned, and she continued, encouraged, even though her throat hurt.

“Swallow all of me. You’ve… earned it, sweetling.”

 _Earned what?_ Not his seed, surely. Didn’t that only come from a bedding? To make a baby?

 _“Fuck,”_ he murmured, then groaned.

Her misapprehension was shattered by the fluid filling her mouth, hot and fast. She jumped in surprise, but once again Lord Baelish was ready, holding her head down between his legs.

“That’s it…” he coaxed, stroking her hair, “sweet daughter, take every drop in your mouth and swallow.”

Tears pricked Sansa’s eyes. It tasted funny, she didn’t want to swallow it, but a part of her heart fluttered at how she _clearly_ satisfied Lord -- her father. 

Forcing it down, Sansa wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Is that what he wanted that her aunt wouldn’t do? How often would she have to do it, once they wed?

Was this a test and had she passed?

It was only when that question came to her that she realized how badly she wanted to prove that she would make a good wife.

She hadn’t even noticed Petyr stirring, then bending down and scooping her up, into his arms. The act sent a thrill through her body, curling into him, being carried by him.

All of her being held in his arms felt… right. 

Lord Baelish carried her over to the bed and laid her down, head resting on the pillow. Without seeming to mind that her lips bore the taste of his seed, he leaned down and kissed her deeply. Sansa, usually unsure what to do with her arms, found they wanted only to reach up and hold him.

He pulled back to stare at her, cupping her face with one hand, while the other held himself up so as not to crush her. Sansa tried to read the emotion in his eyes. It was there, she knew – the truth. When Lord Baelish slipped the mask over his face, the eyeholes remained. So that he could see out, but also, she could see in. 

What lit his green-gray eyes at he gazed at her?

Taken aback, Sansa noted it wasn’t lust, base and simple. Oh, she’d certainly seen that from him. Several times that night even. But now there reflected something else… a subtler yearning. Admiration? Adoration? Awe?

She had only a moment to process the accuracy, before the remarkable thought came that _her own eyes might be reflecting the same thing._

“Sweetling, spread your legs for me. I want to look at you. I want to kiss you, as a man kisses his wife.”

It still took Petyr’s hands, gently prying her legs apart, before she opened them.

 _Why did he like looking so much?_ Seven hells, the man stared.

The sense of shame was knocked from her head when he brought his mouth between her legs, kissing and sucking and _feasting_ on her.

All reluctant thoughts were knocked from her head.

Dimly, Sansa wondered if kissing his cock aroused her. She was wet before Lord Baelish even began, and she reached that place of ecstasy faster than she had the last time, and with twice as much force.

Her hands found his ash-and-black hair, locking her fingers onto his curls as she came, begging him to continue.

Begging, but needing a name, something to call him.

Wanting more than anything for him not to stop, and not wanting to displease him.

“Father,” she cried, “please, _yes,_ father, don’t stop.”

When she shattered, her whole body, inside and out, seemed caught up with and thrust into the climax. Each part given over to the man who'd wrung such cries from her. Those moans belonged to him, her pleasure belonged to him, her heart belonged to him.


	9. Chapter 9

Sansa blinked and Petyr was her lover. She blinked again – her father.

Except, the transformation was not with even such a demarcation, with any perceptible shift.

The lines blurred, so that one moment he was punishing her, and the next, his hands caressed between her legs, coaxing sighs from her lips, and then he resumed spanking her. There felt a _wrongness_ to it, but Sansa couldn’t quite figure out how to redirect Petyr.

Once, he laid on the bed behind her, reaching over her shoulders and sliding his hand beneath her gown, at a time when Sansa felt too tired for arousal. She tried to gently shake him off.

Instead of respecting a lady’s right of refusal, Petyr’s arm bent and curled around the front of her neck. He flexed his bicep with just enough strength, just enough pressure against her throat, to hold her in place and threaten her airway.

The other hand took over the journey to her breast.

Sharing with Petyr the affections of a bride-to-be didn’t deter his use of corrective action better suited to an inferior, a child. And playing the role of his daughter still obliged the spreading of her legs, whenever he wished to touch her intimately. 

Part daughter, part plaything, in braids and small clothes, submitting to a spanking before kneeling and taking his cock in her mouth.

The strange role bled into her studies, so that should Sansa fail to properly recite the dates from some long-ago battle, Petyr might threaten to remind her with his belt that evening. Or he might just as easily punish her by denying that wonderful peak he brought her to whenever he kissed and licked her cunt long enough.

Sansa accepted the power imbalance for three reasons.

One, fighting it wouldn’t do any good. Petyr had a way of getting what he wanted.

Two, she _was_ learning. In and _out_ of the library. Her father bid her study him, as he negotiated with the Lords of the Vale. He revealed to her the aims behind his machinations. He helped her see the hidden motivations in ladies who might befriend her. He imparted lessons in manipulation. He trained her on how to lie and taught her how to decipher dishonesty in others.

Part daughter, part bride, part heir to all the knowledge he’d accumulated in his lifetime.

And the third reason she didn’t fight him was… she didn’t entirely hate it.

# 

No expense was spared for their wedding, anyone could see that.

Men tended to equate wealth with power, and to be fair, such was often the case. Now in possession of both, Petyr displayed such wealth in a manner of extravagance befitting the goddess who would be his bride.

Rumors spread in the weeks before he revealed her. Servants scurried about, whispering like chatty little mice, carrying and sharing suspicions like a choice bit of cheese.

Predictably.

The higher the kitchen tables towered with food, the prettier the gowns he allowed Sansa to wear, the more the castle gossiped.

_A wedding was coming. The bastard girl wasn’t who she claimed to be._

If the color of her maiden’s cloak left any doubt - pure white, trimmed in gray fur - the pearl-and-silver direwolf on its back would settle the question.

Should any lord or lady think Petyr too low-born to marry the heir to Winterfell, they’d have no chance to protest.

And if tongues wagged as they dined, admonishing Lord Petyr for hiding his bride as his daughter, they’d be set upon a new course once he rallied the highborn guests with promises of valor and glory upon the battlefield for the fair maiden’s birthright.

#

A collective gasp filled the High Hall when she entered. Everyone surely learned the truth of the bride by now, but either previously denied its validity or simply couldn’t contain their astonishment when confronted with it.

Of course, some gasped for her beauty alone, and Petyr’s chest swelled with pride.

Nestor Royce escorted the riveting Sansa Stark, and the man’s large chest puffed equally from the bestowing of such an honor.

That, and, Petyr having named him keeper of the Gates of the Moon, the castle to which all would soon retreat to wait out winter.

Washed clean of the dye, Sansa’s long, red hair cascaded freely behind her, save for two sections pulled back and pinned with a silver comb.

Not _quite_ a crown, Petyr mused as he smirked, but conveying a regal notion nonetheless.

He’d loved to have seen her in something gauzier, but the thick white gown better suited the weather, and he had to admit the creature he saw before him was better suited to the look as well.

A maid of milk and snow.

Sansa mirrored Petyr in reverse, an alabaster contrast to his dark attire. Her tight-fitting bodice accentuated her lithe figure. Encircling her long, regal neck, a banded collar - much like his own – bore a silver pin in the shape of a crescent moon.

 _She is mine,_ the dress said. _She is a Stark,_ it said.

But also, _she belongs to you,_ it flattered.

_You are the people to whom the heir was revealed. You are the lords and ladies who provided her shelter._

_The Eyrie is where this great story begins, a tale to be sung for generations._

Draped in ivory, her slender frame stood straight and tall, like a candle. The flickering red of her hair fanned out behind her -- the spark, the flame to ignite a war.

Petyr brought a loose fist to his mouth, half-wishing the guests would disappear and he could claim her without delay.

But no one paid _him_ any mind, as the Red Wolf of Winterfell strolled through the gaping crowd.

He could read Sansa’s nervousness in her rigid posture, the stubborn tilt of her chin, the steel in her eyes. Already part-princess, such subtleties would read as regality to others. He’d trained her well.

One more detail caught his notice. The hint of a smile upon her lips, deepening as she neared him.

Petyr’s own heart swelled in return.

# 

“Who comes before the gods to seek their blessing in this union?” the septon asked.

“Sansa, of House Stark,” Lord Royce offered.

Another gasp spread through the crowd. 

As if _now_ it were real.

“Who comes to claim her?” the septon asked.

“Petyr, of House Baelish.”

He was unable to keep the smug edge from his tone.

“You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection.”

 _A formality,_ Petyr thought. _I’ve long since done that._

_And many other things besides._

As her maiden’s cloak was removed, Petyr unfastened his own. He swept it around Sansa’s shoulders, draping the expanse of black over her thin frame. He paused to gather strands of hair that had been caught underneath, freeing and spreading them back out and over the garment.

She was smiling when she turned to him, blue eyes shining.

 _Mine,_ he thought. _Forever, irrevocably._

_In all ways, mine._

Except _one,_ he reminded himself.

He’d yet to fill her with his seed. Put a Baelish son or daughter in that sweet, Stark belly.

His smirk bore an almost boastful lilt as he pondered, _perhaps tonight._

#

_This was new._

She and Petyr had done so much together, naked in bed, but they hadn’t fully lain as husband and wife.

Standing in her shift, Sansa couldn’t keep from biting her lip, from rubbing her fingers, excited, but anxious.

Petyr had been stripped, but he commanded no man touch beyond his wife’s shift.

“Thank you,” she said softly, once they were alone.

“No need to thank me, sweetling. I did it for us both. If another man saw you without your small clothes, I’d have to kill him, kill each and every one. And then where would we find new lords to pledge soldiers to win back your home?”

He tapped her nose gently as he finished as Sansa giggled, part nerves and part joy.

_Her husband, her home._

After all the terrors she suffered, everything she’d ever wanted was within her reach. Perhaps more, even, then she’d imagined these last few years. Though Sansa still waded through some of Petyr’s murkier motives, she suspected, at times, he wanted even _more_ than the North.

Unburdening her of her shift, her small clothes, Petyr laid Sansa on the bed and came to rest at her feet, surprising her.

He kissed her toes, her high arches, the balls of each foot. He kissed her ankle, and then moved up her legs slowly, so slowly. Surprising Sansa again, he skipped her cunt, instead placing kisses, warm and wet, on her hipbone. He even tickled with his fingers for a moment, making her laugh.

With his mouth, Petyr explored the flat of her stomach as if it were a new land, so slowly Sansa felt a bit impatient for him to reach her breasts, worried he might skip those as well.

When his tongue found her peaks, she sighed, happily. He worked her nipples to an aching stiffness, taking his time. Sansa moaned, her hips wiggling, her eyes closed.

She opened them when Petyr’s mouth disappeared, watched him move lower, between her legs.

Bringing his head down, he laid one gentle kiss on her clitoris – just one. Sansa groaned from the torment, desperate for more.

Petyr rose back up the length of her body, settling himself between her open legs.

Sansa couldn’t help but gulp. It was time.

Petyr's hands found hers, resting on either side of her head. He laced their fingers together.

Those intense, green-gray eyes searched hers.

He waited. For her permission, she realized.

Sansa’s heart, already filled with devotion and gratitude, overflowed with love for her new husband.

His teasing attentions readied her more than if he’d worked her with his hands -- she could feel her own wetness gathering, none of it lost to his fingers. Her cunt throbbed. Through she was a bit frightened, she wanted him inside her.

Sansa nodded, smiling up at Petyr with her nervous smile.

He leaned down, giving Sansa the lightest flutter of a kiss. Lips pressed softly to hers.

Something strange happened at that moment, diminishing her grin.

It was like a spyglass pressed to Sansa’s eye. Though it wasn’t one that helped her see far across a field, but rather one that narrowed her vision in time, brought focus to a point in the past.

Sansa remembered being tied to the kidnapper’s bed, when a man came and pressed such a kiss upon her mouth, naught but a gentle brushing of his lips to hers.

Lips that felt a lot like Petyr’s.

Suddenly, Sansa felt as if a thousand butterflies released within her stomach, fluttering about her ribcage and up to her heart. She felt both in the present moment and simultaneously, the past, dimly aware of Petyr’s hands sliding down to her wrists, encircling them, while her mind raced further back, sending her to a memory in King’s Landing.

_High up in a tower, Grand Maester Pycelle instructed Prince Joffrey and Prince Tommen how to pin insects. Young Tommen was too gentle, too sweet a boy to hurt a fly. And Joffrey hadn’t the patience. He wanted to skewer each straight-away, without the preparation required._

_A butterfly couldn’t simply be stuck to a board, the old man said. It first needed be sealed in a glass container, with a special solution. “Relaxing” the specimen, the grand maester called it. The larger the specimen, the more days it required to soften. Only then, could its wings be spread without breakage. Only then, could they be unfurled and pinned to capture and display the creature’s full glory._

Unlike the Baratheon boys, Sansa had _both_ the pragmatism and the patience to complete the task.

_A combination like Petyr’s._

The butterflies inside Sansa frenzied, reaching her toes, her fingertips, swarming her throat until she could only tear from it a stunted cry - until she _became_ a butterfly whole, wings beating feebly against Petyr.

It had only been a second or two since he laid that lie of a kiss upon her lips, but in her eyes he saw, _he knew she knew._

_In life, the monsters win._

He’d devised it all. Deceived her, misused her. From the beginning, biding his time.

Lord Petyr Baelish was a monster, and Sansa, a butterfly, caught within his jaws. It was as if she could now see the light through the spaces in his fangs, he hadn’t swallowed her. But she was helpless to do anything other than flit about the cage of his mouth.

Her husband’s fingers flexed around her wrists, and Sansa finally found her voice.

 _“No!”_ she cried, at the same time Petyr thrust inside her.

She was the butterfly. Spread, impaled on their martial bed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eek, was that too dark?! It's sort of the end. There is one more chapter, but it's almost an epilogue. Although I hope enough to not feel abrupt. 
> 
> When I imagined this story, I thought it would be 3-4 chapters, and this was the scene I was working toward. It came out twisting like my last fic, in that Petyr and Sansa have a lovely wedding, only for her to find out the truth moments before the bedding. Being a darker Petyr, he goes ahead and does what he wants anyway. 
> 
> I'm sorry about the rather dull exposition/telling in the first part of this chapter. I am GOING MAD cooped up inside (I live in a city) and my brain refuses to function. I might correct it someday, but right now I'm dancing with madness. And he's leading.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's dark. 
> 
> There's gaslighting. 
> 
> And parental role-play. 
> 
> Please be warned, this was meant to be an exercise in darkness and it's dark.

Was it a cruelty or a kindness that he made her peak after claiming her maidenhead?

She fought it just as hard as their coupling.

Petyr was certain of Sansa’s soreness. She had been unbelievably tight around his erection, and a little blood mixed with the semen, seeping out of her and coating his cock.

He wanted her wedding night to be more than only pain.

He wanted her to know she couldn’t truly despise him. Not fully.

Petyr had held her wrists in one hand, while his other rubbed her clitoris incessantly, forcing the pleasure on her. Until she shook and writhed, squeezing her legs around and against his hand, swearing her hatred between every gasp.

She raged once he let her up. Pummeling his chest with her fists, cursing him. Petyr let her, grabbing and hauling her away from the door only when she threatened to find moon tea.

After a few hours, his sensible girl returned. White-hot anger abated, giving way to the quiet coldness he found admirable, valuable. He watched her face, almost seeing the arguments and counter-arguments flit across her features as she reasoned through a way forward.

Breaking the silence, she swore, “I will hate you forever.” 

From the other side of the bed, Petyr blinked slowly. He did not invade her personal space, but he did not back away either.

“There is nothing to be done, my love. We are bound.”

Sansa tossed her head back, a derisive laugh on her lips. “Your dependent, your daughter, your wife. So many months, so may ties, so _tangled._ As bound as with chains of Valerian steel. You have no great sword in your house, Petyr. This is how you fight your battles. Ensnaring others.”

It was a bit of a rhetorical ramble, Sansa thought he would ignore it.

But Petyr replied, “We are equally ensnared,” and Sansa loathed that she could hear the vulnerability of raw emotion in his rasp.

He had no right.

Petyr reached for her again and Sansa did not know his intention. To caress her? To soothe her? Gods, to fuck her?

Teeth clenched, she closed her eyes.

She was too emotionally exhausted to fight him, whatever was to come.

#

“I’ll only be a moment,” Petyr said, a mischievous smirk forming on his lips. “When I return, it would please me if I found you on your hands and knees.” 

Glowering couldn’t still the blush rising on Sansa’s cheeks.

Across from the bed, the hearth blazed, keeping the room almost uncomfortably warm, despite the cold winds outside Winterfell’s walls.

They’d retaken the castle. Just as Petyr promised.

Her half-brother Jon had returned for the battle, bringing wildlings by his side. Shortly after they’d won, he left Winterfell once more.

Sansa and Jon managed the castle with what could almost be called a joint-rule. He oversaw battle strategies, preparing the North against an unimaginable threat he claimed came down upon them from beyond the wall. To that end, he sailed off to seek an alliance with Daenerys Targaryen and her island of dragonglass mines.

Sansa saw to the day-to-day affairs within the castle walls, as well as war and wintertime preparations for the surrounding houses of the North.

She and Jon were both a temporary Lord and Lady of Winterfell, through an unusual and amicable balance.

 _They were figureheads._ Even if it was only clear to Sansa.

The Knights of the Vale held Winterfell protected by their numbers, and they followed Robin Arryn.

And the young lord, who’d recently made a _miraculous_ recovery, followed every last word of his beloved Uncle Petyr.

#

Lord Baelish’s eyes glinted as he drank in the sight of his lovely wife on all fours, just as he requested. Her stomach curved out slightly beneath her, growing with their first child.

“Whatever you said to the men today, they couldn’t stop singing your praises tonight.”

Sansa’s only reply was a wordless huff through her nose, lips clamped shut. Petyr kept his secrets. She’d keep hers.

“They wanted to name you Queen in the North, over your half-brother,” he said slowly, haughtily, as if he bestowed new information.

Sansa inwardly shrugged. She already knew that. Some said Jon. Some said her. Their current arrangement suited best; she had no will to change it.

“I advised against it,” Petyr continued, moving toward her. “Bastard or no, your brother Jon should be named the King in the North.”

Sansa whipped her head to the side, eyes wide, then narrowing. 

_Well, if she_ had _a will in any direction, it wasn’t that one._

Petyr’s lips twitched. He enjoyed surprising her.

For a moment, Sansa wondered if his ego had spoken for him. On the _surface_ the Northmen followed her, a trueborn Stark of Winterfell, despite Petyr being her husband. Yet… Petyr wasn’t the type to care about the appearance of power.

“Now is not the time to be King or Queen, of any corner of Westeros,” Petyr cautioned, shaking his head. “Dragons fly above and dead men march below. Let those who mean to rule fight it out as they have done for countless years. Best to stay one step behind, in the shadow of power.”

Lovingly, he stroked Sansa’s belly.

“When the ashes fall,” he said, “step into the light and claim what’s yours.”

“You mean ours?” Sansa asked, voice dripping sarcasm. “You mean _yours.”_

Petyr leaned down to her ear and rasped, _“hers,”_ as he gave her belly a gentle squeeze.

Sansa closed her eyes, inhaling deeply. The idea of giving their son or daughter the Iron Throne, as she now understood Petyr’s aim, filled her with unexpected relief. _Especially_ if they had a girl. To know that no one higher in rank could command of her, could render her helpless to the torments of men, as Sansa had suffered under Joffrey.

As complicated as her feelings were for Petyr, Sansa _knew_. As king, he would protect their child like no one else could, through _any_ means necessary. Petyr would never allow anything less than perfect happiness for his son or daughter.

Even when Sansa wanted to claw at him, to rake her nails down and through his flesh until she tore to the bone, she knew in her heart the total safety of their family was assured in his expert hands.

#

Petyr dipped his fingers between Sansa’s legs.

Wet.

Sansa’s condition only made her desire grow. She’d been remarkably easy to bring to climax before; now the changes in his sweetling ruled her body to the point of single-minded lust. She not only responded immediately to his touch, she was half in a state of arousal whenever he entered the room. Whether she liked it or not.

Though even Sansa could not protest that some part of her didn’t love him, and the things he made her do.

She’d been irrefutably excited the night before when Petyr insisted, with his cock teasing her opening, that she plead for her father to fuck his daughter. He prolonged the torture, dragging the tip of his erection up and down her slit, making her repeat several obscene requests in that vein before he relented, and thrust inside.

After a shared climax, she lay, spent in his arms. Fuming through the shame, Sansa accused him of changing her very nature.

“ _If you want to build a new old home, you must first demolish your old one,”_ she repeated his lesson, with mocking. “Right, Petyr? That’s what you did. You broke and re-built me, to your liking.”

Her words were untrue. No one could spot a lie better than he, and this one wasn’t even difficult. Petyr could hear it in Sansa’s heightened moans, he could feel it in the clench of her walls around his cock, when he whispered in her ear that she was his little girl, his _good little girl._

He didn’t destroy or build her anew.

It was all there, already inside her, a seedling he patiently cultivated, guided since their time in King’s Landing. She might have developed another way, had he allowed her to marry a silly boy like Harry.

But Petyr had simply trained her in this one, like a tree, subtly but firmly coaxing her blossoming in the direction he wanted her to grow.

_And look at her now._

“Open your mouth, sweetling,” he said to his young bride, kneeling before him on the bed. “Spread your legs. Raise your bottom. Let me see all of my choices.”

His words implied the use of _one_ of her orifices. 

Many men got a girl with child and quickly lost interest, went off looking for another belly to fill. But seeing Sansa grow with his baby only made Petyr’s cock harder every time he looked at her. He was assuredly keen for more than one coupling that evening.

Lord Baelish stripped himself as Sansa's hips twitched, as she tried to figure out where he’d take her.

He’d begin with her sweet mouth. Let her suck and swallow every last drop he’d spill down her throat. When he hardened once more, he’d move to her cunt. Fuck her, bring her to the brink of ecstasy, and then deny her what she so desired. Once he’d worked his sweetling into such a state, too aroused to protest, he’d finish off in her backside.

She’d collapse, wanting and writhing on the bed.

Only then would he claim her cunt with his mouth, do that trick with his tongue that sent her bucking off the sheets so wildly he had to hold her down to finish bringing her to the shuddering end.

Coming to kneel in front of her head, Petyr brought his erection to Sansa’s mouth. He tapped his cock against her plump lips but did not yet allow her to suck. He rubbed his tip around her mouth in a few soft circles.

The lust filling her eyes sent a thrill through him. The fear that he’d deny her. The hope that if she pleased him enough, he’d give her pleasure in return.

“Are you ready, my girl?” he asked, in a special tone of voice he saved only for their intimate moments.

Sansa nodded, a shiver running through her as she opened wider.

Petyr took her head in his hands. Lacing and locking his fingers through her auburn hair, he slid his erection into her warm and welcoming mouth.

“That’s it…” he instructed, “show your father how much you want his cock.”

Petyr couldn’t help but swear under his breath as his dutiful girl did as she was told.


End file.
